


Tides of Stars

by Tel



Series: Tides of Stars [1]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Post-Apocalyptic, Time Travel, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2010-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tel/pseuds/Tel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To say it hasn't all been happily ever after for Miles Vorkosigan these last few years would be a severe understatement. After an astonishing series of personal cataclysms, he is once more on the run - with no authority, no friends, and no back-up. In a universe not of his own making he must survive by his wits alone.</p><p>The stakes are hellishly high, and he's playing against historical inevitability, the laws of physics, his own increasing infirmity, and himself. However, he's playing to win...</p><p>[An AU of sorts - post-Diplomatic Immunity, pre-Mirror Dance]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ebb Tide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girl_called_sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_called_sun/gifts).



Hell swallowed them after the jump.

The jump pilot was one of the most experienced cross-netters in the fleet, which didn't say much. He'd been doing it for two years, perhaps. Unexpected byproduct of the abortive Komarr plot, the crossnetter ships were few, quiet, and utterly stealthy, able to slip from tuned wormhole to tuned wormhole in defiance of both centuries of established wormhole physics and common sense.

It had been perhaps five seconds since they had entered the wormhole. Far too long. The hallucinations were getting sharper, crowding around his thoughts in a stream of gold-white ghosts. He turned, slow as maple molasses, to glance at the man in the room's only seat.

The pilot's lips were moving. Some prayer, Imperial Auditor Miles Vorkosigan thought. No sound emerged. Miles made to speak, and then stopped. Every second now was hours to a pilot, and Lieutenant Mitsotakis was still jump-tranced, still trying to hurl them through.

Miles had been holding himself together since Jumppoint Station 0 had exploded in gravitational backwash, since Gregor's last urgent message, now cut off. Sitting on the floor of the tiny chamber, he drew his knees to his chest, and his fingernails bit into his shins. It was strange how those simple points of light on the crossnetter's navigation board had been so much more shattering than even that desperate ride out of Dagoola. He felt like he should have been detached from events, somehow. Not destroyed by them.

His body shuddered, but Miles was too shattered to weep. He clenched a fist by his side and closed his eyes, waiting. For once, he felt too tired to fight inevitability.

After a timeless moment, the ship became very silent. Cautiously, Miles cracked one eye open. Had they made it? It defied logic. He felt his leg twitch, and admitted to himself that he didn't _feel_ like a random emission of quarks. The silence was so deafening that the barest hint of movement behind him made him jump in his seat.

"M'lord?" Roic asked warily, poking his head through the hatch. "What happened?"

It was still too quiet, Miles thought blankly. "We nearly jumped to hell, I think," he began, gathering his thoughts. "When the station went, the resonance equivalence must have gotten jangled. I don't know if we're where we're supposed to be - nobody is hailing us, but that doesn't mean anything. We're somewhere, that's all that matters." He stumbled to his feet and glanced at the navigation board. "Somewhere with ships. Excellent work, Lieutenant." He smiled at Mitsotakis and finally realized the officer wasn't breathing. "_Shit!_"

With exquisite care, Miles climbed onto the pilot's chair and swung the headset off the lieutenant's head, disconnecting Mitsotakis's oxygen-deprived brain from the ship. "Get me a medkit." he ordered. The lieutenant's eyes were fixed, staring into space. He waved his hand in front of them pointlessly, and felt...heat?

"Goddamn _paranoids_!" He closed his eyes and cursed Research and Development thoroughly as the faint smell of scorched flesh wafted through the room. Had Mitsotakis died first, or had his very classified implant's suicidal self-destruct falsely sensed tampering? It was impossible to say, but either way his brain was surely cooked. Even if it had been intact, the Imperial Service hadn't bothered to put an emergency cryo-chamber aboard. Pointless on a one-person ship.

He waved off Roic glumly. "No use now. He's dead. I wonder where the hell _we_ are, though. This definitely isn't Sergyar." Miles saw young Alys peek through the hatch, and regretted his lapses into barracks language. He peered at the navigation board again tiredly. They were somewhere with a lot of trade, but not Komarr. The green dots of Barrayaran military craft were nowhere in sight. Nuovos would have been red - none of those, either. There were high numbers of other military craft, but total numbers were low for the volume of commercial traffic.

This wasn't a tactics room, sadly, and Miles hadn't had to work with displays this primitive in many years. The crossnetter was incredibly crammed for space, and its sensors weren't anything to call home about. He finally managed to call up IFF information on what looked like jumppoint guards, and nodded slowly at what he saw. "Escobar. Wasn't much else it could be."

Escobar was...not ideal. Even though there was only a single jump between Escobar and an Imperially-controlled buffer system, they'd need to get clearance, and Escobaran security would ask...questions. Without a jump pilot, of course, they couldn't jump at all, and even if they had one, Miles wasn't sure if the crossnetter's Riva coils would handle a normal wormhole jump, so to speak. Admittedly, there were much worse places to end up than Escobar. Eta Ceta, for instance. Or Nuovo Brasil...

Miles sighed and considered his situation. What did he have to work with?

Item, one Armsman. Roic was, God help them all, past thirty now, and far less of a callow youth than he once had been. He was deadly in his own fashion, but at the same time he was still no Bothari.

Item, one very dead jump-pilot. Corpses, Miles thought gloomily, were rarely convenient to have on hand. He supposed they could stick him in the bod pod and shoot him into a gas giant.

Item, one Imperial princess, three years old. More or less toilet-trained, but not much of a talker. Critical to the future security of the Imperium, needless to say. Miles smiled bitterly. He was not particularly optimistic about the future security of the Imperium right now.

Item, one highly classified crossnetter that could not be permitted to fall into the hands of, well, anyone. The ship had a self-destruct system, Miles knew, but no real means of escape except one bod-pod. Dock it with some innocent vessel and then trigger it as soon as they were safely onboard? There were obvious negatives to that approach. Which was more important? The secret of the Riva coils or the safety of the Princess? Miles pinched his nose. It was one of those hellish security choices and Roic, damnit, was not immune to fast-penta.

His companions enmeshed him in a web of obligations that he had pledged his name's word on - his duty to his Emperor, his duty to his liegeman, his duty to the Imperium to protect the deadly military secrets it had killed a man to keep. He was held to one last terrible duty as well, one his mind shied away from even now.

He pulled his attention back to the Nav board. What else was out there? There were two packs of small warships hanging out in Escobar orbit, likely disarmed mercs doing refits, but civilian traffic and Escobaran military deployments looked normal. That meant there should be plenty of Barrayaran civilian craft. Escobar was the largest single trade route out of the Empire. While normally the vast Komarran trade fleets would have military escorts, ships in the Imperial Service rarely entered Escobar space because of the supervised weapon lockdowns the Escobarans still imposed.

Miles fussed with the IFF settings to tag the ships of various stellar powers and frowned. Something was itching at him. Komarr must be sitting on the news, but surely Escobar should be more stirred up than this. The other crossnetters had jumped for the relays near Sergyar, Komarr. and Marilac seven hours ago, after all. Every warship Barrayar had in the Nexus had to be streaking for home. He glanced over what was guarding the Sergyaran jumppoint. They were old ship types, not Escobar's newest and fastest. To Miles's expert eye, they looked pretty bored. _Huh._

Since nothing was heading towards or leaving from their location, and there was no jump station nearby, Miles felt safe to assume they were sitting on a dead-end wormhole. There were plenty of those in Escobaran space, since it was even more rich in five-space nodes than Komarr. Nearby wormhole termini resonated with each other, which was likely why the crossnetter had come out here instead of some lonely Nexus waypoint halfway to Andromeda. Amazing that it had come out of jump at all, but Miles's luck had always been like that. As ever, it was a mixed blessing.

He was fairly sure nobody had spotted them yet, since by Fleet crossnetter policy they did not have a location beacon. Right now he was thankful for that. If they were careful when and at what vector they lit off their drives, they could stay invisible even in-system. R &amp; D may have stinted on sensors, but not stealth.

His train of thought was interrupted by a loud but unintelligible complaint from the pilot's tiny sleeping chamber. Miles sighed. "Roic?"

"Yes, m'lord?" his Armsman said instantly.

"Inventory our emergency supplies and keep the Princess occupied back there."

His emergency ImpSec contacts were all many years out of date for this side of the Nexus. He could just call the local Embassy, but Miles was reluctant to betray himself so obviously. There had to be a better solution, but Miles suspected that their supplies wouldn't stretch more than a week and they were at least fifteen hours from Escobar orbit.

He went back to sorting through all of the Barrayaran-registered vessels. Most were Komarran-owned, and thus not trustworthy under the circumstances. A Toscane craft just might take the risk for the Empress's daughter, but none of the big craft were fully owned by any of the various Toscane subsidiaries. So much for simple solutions.

Miles sighed, and flipped through the other ships in Escobar orbit to see if he found anything interesting. _Skykiss_ was the only ship in the first dozen he looked through that he recognized; it was the private yacht of elderly Komarran political activist-in-exile Ser Obis. No help to be found there. He kept looking. _San Yeltar_ was a Jacksonian-registered freighter, perhaps a smuggler. _Millenis_ was a Tau Cetan passenger liner. _D-16_ was a Jacksonian-registered heavy cruiser. _Scieszka_ was a Kshatryan Imperial fast courier..._wait a minute_.

He cautiously paged back, stared at the abbreviated record, and then selected another ship keeping station nearby. This one was _Briseis_, fast courier, registered out of Jackson's Whole. He knew that ship well. He knew the next ship even more intimately. The name on her beacon was _Peregrine_, and she was dead, two years gone. Her spaceframe had been fatally raked by Cetagandan imploder lances. None of her crew had escaped, not even her fiercely brave Admiral.

Miles had made himself watch the tactics plot dump from a surviving Dendarii ship - out of masochism, perhaps. He supposed he'd been trying to see what he could have done better if he had been there, pondering what-ifs instead of the bitter reality. He'd led a hell of a lot of people- many of whom he knew, liked, and trusted - to their deaths over the years, something that still gnawed at him.

Though he'd finally been forced to let the past go, but it seemed it hadn't returned the favor. This, he thought maniacally, was _insane_. The five-space physicists would freak. The military would freak even further. Miles had read enough speculative fiction to be uncomfortably aware how much of a Pandora's box the ability to travel through time was. Glumly, he mentally bumped the safety of the crossnetter above the safety of the princess in his planning.

_Congratulations, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. You've just destroyed the universe. Now what will you do for an encore?_ Everything he'd built in the last nine-ish years was gone in a shatter of quarks. As far as he knew, he'd just killed everyone he'd ever known.

But what now? _Make sure you don't do it again, idiot,_ a voice in his head said.

One option, he supposed, was to sit back, not intervene, and starve to death waiting for events to sort themselves out on their own. Perhaps he would be more gentle on the fabric of the universe that way. That idea didn't appeal to him, not least because it seemed to invite an infinite loop in which most of his friends and family died horrible deaths.

So what was the alternative? Pursuing his vengeance across space and time? No, not just vengeance. Vengeance was destructive. He was phrasing the question the wrong way. It shouldn't be about who he could kill, but who he could save.

_Objective identified_. Save his whole damn planet. Well, that shouldn't be too hard. He'd have to play this very carefully, of course, and start small.

Miles stared at the navigation board and thought very hard. Eleven warships, two fast couriers, and five other support vessels, all loyal to him. Well, loyal to one of him, anyway. He could use them somehow. All paths to victory led through the Dendarii Free Mercenaries.

The first person he had to save, of course, was himself.

*

The timing of his arrival in the Escobar system, while very fortuitous, was not perfectly ideal. He was arguably a week early and so his journey into Escobar orbit had stretched out to kill time. Miles reluctantly disabled the bod-pod's emergency beacon and jettisoned the pilot's corpse; there just wasn't room for four in the tiny ship.

By necessity the princess was settled in the pilot's tiny cabin, since the other two rooms were not childproof in the slightest. Roic could barely lie down in the engine room, while Miles slept in the pilot's chair on the bridge. They were cooped up together like that for five interminable days as they drifted in system. Alys was not very happy about the situation, and neither was Roic, although the armsman was much quieter about it. Miles was longingly eying the military sedatives in the first aid kit by the time they slid silently into orbit.

The first stage of his plan went fairly flawlessly, all in all. He knew men in the Dendarii, and women, and more critically he knew who the key men and women were, the ones who knew how everything worked and could be trusted to carry out his commands with extreme discretion.

_Bride of Suleim_ was the most massive of the Dendarii warships, larger and slower than the pocket dreadnaught _Triumph_ that Miles usually used as his flag. She was based off an elderly Kshatryan war cruiser hull that the Dendarii had salvaged after it had suffered an artificial gravity failure during high acceleration. Fleet engineer Baz Jesek had done miracles reconditioning the vessel and arming it with modern weaponry. While it looked ancient, battered, and well-used, close in it packed the largest punch of the fleet. It was a fully fleet-owned craft, and even better, one of its combat-drop shuttles had recently been transferred to the _Triumph_ to cover the loss of A-4 over Marilac. That meant there was space in a secure bay to land their ship.

He arranged the landing quietly. Roic was the only individual to interact directly with the _Bride_'s few on-duty officers, using the weight of Miles's name and a few audio messages Miles had specially recorded in the five days they had spent invisibly sauntering in to orbit. The _Bride_ was merely expecting a new recruit and a ship to be stored for use on a future mission.

Rigging a remote self-destruct for the crossnetter had taken some time, but Miles successfully knocked together something he thought would work, although testing it was out of the question. He'd part ways with Roic here, putting his armsman in charge of making sure the Barrayaran ship did not fall into enemy hands. With a recommendation from Admiral Naismith, Roic's admittance to the Dendarii was assured, and if something horrible happened to Miles he would be as safe as any mercenary could hope to be. Meanwhile, Miles and Alys would try to sneak aboard Elena Bothari-Jesek's _Peregrine_ without being noticed. He was unfortunately likely to need the sedatives for that.

Tractored by the _Bride_, the crossnetter slid into a zero-gravity docking bay. The _Bride's_chief engineer, her assistant, and a couple of non-coms handled tethering the ship. Roic, dubious about abandoning his liege lord at this juncture, gave him one last glance before swinging out of the vessel.

The airlock closed and Miles settled down for a long wait in the stifling, toddler-puke-scented pilot's cabin with Alys. If all went according to plan, Sergeant Vyas would show up at the crossnetter in a couple of hours. If he could convince Vyas he was Naismith, the tech sergeant could get him off the _Bride_ unobserved, and set him up with someone on the _Peregrine_ to take him onboard just as quietly.

It was all going too well. He was getting itchy about that.

*

Seven hours later he and Alys were ensconced in an empty cabin aboard the _Peregrine_. Miles finished carefully erasing all records of his entry from the vessel's internal networks. They'd have to live on the emergency rations stored under the beds for the next few weeks, but he could live with that. He reassigned the crewman who had helped him aboard to the _Bride_, fed the _Peregrine_'s tactics room plot to his own console, leaned back, and considered his situation.

If his memory of the incident on Jackson's Whole was right, his brother Mark should be making his way through the Escobar transfer station right about now, getting ready to run off with Bel Thorne's _Ariel_ to Jackson's Whole. Miles had given serious thought to intercepting Mark before he could hijack the Dendarii vessel, but reluctantly had been forced to reject the idea.

When Sergeant Vyas has inquired, Miles had blamed his current haggard look on side-effects from a Cetagandan bioweapon. The explanation was true to a point, but the question had driven the point home that he couldn't effortlessly pass as Naismith any longer. He was too old and too battered and too feeble. While soldiers not expecting a double might give him the benefit of the doubt, in the inquisitorial environment denouncing Mark as a clone would create he himself would fall under suspicion.

Miles couldn't afford that. He needed, above all, to stay in control of his environment, and he could do that better from the _Peregrine_ than a cell on the _Triumph_.

From the tactics plot he saw the Ariel was already moving off-station. Damn. He'd misremembered, or misestimated, or something. It'd take another two hours to reach the jumppoint, but that was less time to think than he wanted.

What he knew he wanted was to get a message off to Bel about his brother. While Bel already knew its so-called commander was Mark, or would know soon, Miles had other things he wanted to say. He estimated it would take him about a half an hour even with his Admiral's codes to compromise the communication system enough to send a message without alerting Nav and Com, so he started immediately.

Unfortunately he soon learned his estimate was grossly optimistic. Miles was rusty in the particulars, since his Auditor's seal had made them superfluous in his day to day life. An hour and a half later, he finally declared victory. Entering the Captain's-eyes-only code for Bel, he switched the console to record audio only and leaned into the pick-up.

"Bel," he said, "this is Miles. As you may or may not have noticed, my brother has stolen your ship and one of my commando squads and is planning to cause havoc. If you want to lock him up, a good time to do so would be now."

Miles took a deep breath. "However, I leave such matters to your captainly judgement. Should for whatever reason he evade capture, please remember he does not know how to run a drop mission, and he may be overly ambitious in the number of kids he can herd. Adjust your contingency planning accordingly as you are responsible for all outcomes. I did not send this message. You did not receive this message." Miles paused. "Good hunting, Bel."

He stared at the comconsole, then stabbed at the buttons that would tight-beam his message to the Ariel. Done. With another swipe across the keypad he undid the past ninety minutes' careful work and returned the console to the tactics room feed. Turning around, he found Alys watching him warily with her large brown eyes.

The past week had been harder on the princess than either of her companions. Miles wondered uneasily if the girl thought she'd been kidnapped - she'd stopped bawling loudly about four days out and had instead spent most of her time huddled listlessly in bed looking traumatized. Miles hadn't really talked to her much, leaving her care mostly to Roic. She reminded him too much of his Helen, and that was still a wound too raw to deal with.

"I'm going to try to get you home, Alys," he said quietly. "Give me another few weeks. I know you don't like spaceships, but we needed to get you away from the bad people."

He wasn't sure how much of that she understood. Sighing, he got her a cup of water and held it to her lips as she drank. What the hell, he had time to kill. Temporarily dismissing the tactics room feed, he called up the _Peregrine_'s library.

"Would you like me to read you a story?"

*

Four days passed and the _Ariel_ did not return. Miles watched the shuttles on the display and bit his fingernails absently.

There was so much that could go wrong. He had hoped his other brother - himself? odd thought - would be a little more hasty, but the famous Admiral Naismith was being just as cautious in his response as Miles had been the first time around. Damnit.

The ship had gone on twenty-four hour alert a day back. The commando squads and non-critical officers had trickled back from Escobar leave, and comm tech Travis Gray had begun waking first shift up with ancient music from the 1980s again. The hallways were packed, and so Miles was trapped in his room.

He was glad he'd gotten some laundry done earlier. In addition, he'd acquired some Dendarii fatigues from Vyas to wear instead of his House uniform, as well as a new dress uniform he'd had delivered to the flag cabin. He remembered too well the humiliation of trying to deal with Bharaputra in someone else's ill-fitting clothes.

The Admiral himself was on the ship now, and had certainly walked past less than ten feet from Miles's door. Irrationally, the very thought made the back of Miles's neck prickle. He tried to force himself to relax. It wasn't like they'd explode on contact in some kind of Naismith/anti-Naismith annihilation, after all - at least, he thought they wouldn't.

Miles's main concern was that he wasn't confident in his ability to manipulate himself into doing what he wanted. As he had grown older, Miles had begun to view his insane military adventurism in his twenties in the same way Illyan must have viewed it at the time. In retrospect, it was hard to reconstruct what the hell he had been thinking. You had to be a particular flavor of mad to pull off the sorts of missions he once had, and he wasn't sure he could predict what Naismith would _do_. Death had changed Miles a lot. Children had changed him more.

The engines on the _Peregrine_ hummed to life. They were moving.

*

Miles tracked the _Peregrine_'s progress on his comconsole until he determined they weren't going to catch Bel, and then just counted the jumps. Alys took up much of his attention, as he endeavored to coax her out of her shell by explaining various bits of starship tech to her.

Ship's evening before the last jump, he decided he had to get into position. Communications would be handled from the tactics room, and there was a room off tactics for officers to sleep in during a prolonged engagement. If he could get in there, he'd be in a much better position to intervene in the numerous delicate negotiations he was sure was forthcoming. He had a couple of aces up his sleeve his brother didn't.

Of course, all of this overplanning would be useless if Mark got the kids out this time. Or alternately, got everybody killed. He wasn't sure how closely events would follow their past course when a firefight was involved, and his vague instructions to Bel might hurt as much as help.

After opening up a ration pack for Alys, he dressed once more in his House uniform. He had taken a risk and had it laundered, since a week in the crossnetter had not been kind to it. Checking his appearance in the tiny cabin, he decided he looked about as presentable as he could hope under the circumstances.

Miles made one last check of the ship's internal surveillance, and then strode out of the room like he owned the ship. He passed a few people in the hall, and waved off their instinctive salutes.

The duty officer in the tactics room paid a little more attention than his early-shift comrades. His eyebrows rose at the the sharp Vorkosigan uniform.

Miles carefully didn't meet his gaze. The man had probably seen Naismith in the last few days, and he could pass for his brother-self better when viewed from above. At least their _haircuts_ matched. "I'm short on civvies," he said gruffly in his best Betan accent, by way of explanation. With a jerk of a thumb towards the door, he ordered the duty officer out. "Get some coffee or something. I'll be done in about half an hour."

"Yes, sir." the man said. With a last curious glance he cleared out.

Miles programmed the communications console to feed all communications to the console in the adjoining room, covered his tracks adequately, and decamped to the sleep chamber, locking the door. Belatedly, he worried about leaving Alys alone in their previous cabin.

Well, if she got in trouble he couldn't do anything about it now. Miles napped for the four hours remaining before first shift, but was woken with the rest of the ship by Freddie Mercury. One of these days somebody with a hangover was going to strangle Travis, he reflected ruefully.

Communications activity peaked as they made the last jump into Jackson's Whole. Miles listened to Captain Quinn as she dealt with various underfunctionaries involved with the jump point consortium and House Bharaputra. His mood brightened a little as he realized that Mark and Bel had done slightly better for themselves this time in their attempt to rescue the Jacksonian clones. They were now holed up in the Dendarii shuttle with all of the clone creche's girls. Some injuries, no Dendarii deaths - _yes_! Miles counted _that_ as a win.

The Bharaputrans were crowding the airspace above the shuttle with float-trucks and their own shuttles, making it impossible for Bel to safely lift. The _Ariel_ had been chased away from the planet, so even if the shuttle by some miracle made orbit there was nowhere for it to go.

Miles sat up and paid attention as Elli finally connected Baron Bharaputra with Naismith. With luck, Naismith could handle this all himself, but he wasn't willing to trust to luck. The conversation seemed to be drifting significantly from what he recalled it as having been, yet they still hit his cue - the question Vasa Luigi had clearly been dying to ask about Barrayar. He slipped through the door noiselessly as Naismith began his well-practiced response.

"...tolerate me, I do them a favor now and then. For a price. Other than that, we practice mutual avoidance. Barrayaran Imperial Security has a longer arm than even House Bharaputra. You don't want to attract their negative attention."

"Baron Bharaputra," Miles said crisply from behind his brother-self. "Perhaps I should make the position of my government more clear."

The Baron's eyes widened and his younger self spun in his chair, stopped stone cold. Miles saw Elli draw her stunner out of the corner of his eye. He gave her a slight smile and waved her off, stepping forward into the vid-plate pickup. She automatically relaxed, before focusing on him again with sudden terrified tension.

"The disposition of Naismith's mutinous crew is not Barrayar's concern," he continued, addressing the Baron. "However, this particular clone of mine is wanted for...various crimes against the Imperium." His expression hardened. "In a sense, his very existence and early nurture was a crime against the Imperium. His transfer to any other individual, consortium, or foreign power is unacceptable." He opened his hand. "We are, however, willing to pay a suitable bounty - equal to what you suggested for that hermaphrodite captain."

The Admiral settled back into his seat. Bharaputra glanced between them.

"Things become somewhat more clear," the Baron said. "Might I ask under what authority your offer is made?"

Miles smiled. "As my father's son. The original, as it were. This is a matter that impugns the honor of our name. Suffice it to say that the money is real."

"You work in Imperial Security, is that correct, Lord Vorkosigan?"

A slight bow, a bland look. "Indeed. I have also served as a diplomatic envoy on occasion."

"Can we return to the matter of my subordinates?" the Admiral asked, finally composed enough to speak. "Provided my clone is remanded to the Barrayarans alive, I am willing to provisionally accept your terms."

Bharaputra raised his youthful eyebrows. "You are working together?"

"Unfortunately," they chorused. Naismith glanced uneasily at him.

"We generally try to avoid each other," the Admiral started, while Miles muttered "A temporary arrangement."

"I see," Vasa Luigi said. "I do believe we can make a deal then, Admiral."

"There is, of course, an auxiliary consideration," Miles added. "My more junior clone is likely to be uncooperative. When forced to surrender his captives, he may become extremely unpredictable and dangerous. I would find it useful to acquire a few additional hostages to ensure his good behavior."

Bharaputra frowned at him, uncomprehending. Naismith gave him a narrow sideways glance.

"I have become aware that you are currently nurturing clones of at least two other Barrayaran nationals. I assure you that Lord James Vorlambert and Minister Reedi will not have the opportunity to use their commissioned offspring in the usual fashion. Since they are of no other use to you..." Miles trailed off with a tight smile. Reedi's clone had been in the group rescued by Mark once upon a time, but the Barrayarans had only caught Vorlambert _after_ his brain had been transplanted.

"I do not run a charity, Lord Vorkosigan." Bharaputra said mildly. "If you wish to make a purchase, you can make an offer."

"Baron, I only seek to save you the significant cost of their further pointless upkeep, which of course has now been made even more expensive by your product's unwise attempt at vengeance." He spread his hands. "Some token payment may be appropriate - perhaps a thousand credits each?"

Bharaputra considered Miles thoughtfully. "Fifteen hundred," he said, "with your sworn assurance that their...repatriation will remain quiet and involve no public scandal."

Oh, _clever_. Vasa Luigi was perfectly willing to sell out his customers, but not willing to be _seen_ to do so. It was probably the best deal Miles was going to get, so he nodded. "Provided the deal is closed to my satisfaction, you may have my word as Vorkosigan on the matter."

Naismith took over from there, and after another five minutes successfully hammered out the specifics with Bharaputra. Bharaputra would tow the shuttle to Fell's Jumppoint Five station, and the kidnapped clones would be released there into Bharaputra custody. The two clones Miles had bought would then be handed over to Captain Thorne. After that the Dendarii would pay and Bel would be allowed to leave with the shuttle and rendezvous with a friendly vessel.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Baron." Naismith said with as little sarcasm as he could muster after the Deal was closed. "I'll see you at Fel station."

"So you will," Bharaputra said. "Do bring your...brother."

Naismith cut the comm and twisted in his chair again to look at Miles. "You're not Mark," he said eventually.

"No."

Naismith's gaze slid down to focus on Miles's House uniform. "Excellent work on the costume," he observed. "I commend your tailor."

"My man in Hassadar is very good." Miles said blandly.

Naismith searched his face for sarcasm and found it. His lips thinned and he turned to Elli. "How the _fuck_ did he get in here?"

"He was in there," Elli said, nodding at the adjoining room. She still held a stunner on Miles. God, Elli was still gorgeous. It nearly broke his heart with gratitude to see her alive and well.

"How the hell did he get in there then?"

"One of these days," Miles observed, "we'll have to have a chat about the inadvisability of running your fleet as a personality cult when you have two identical twin brothers."

Naismith growled under his breath and rose to his feet, swinging around the edge of the station chair to face Miles. His eyes widened as he looked up, and Miles bit back a delighted smile. Usually nobody ever noticed the extra few centimeters of height he'd gained after his death.

"Who _are_ you?" Naismith asked bluntly.

"For the next few days, I am necessarily Lord Vorkosigan," Miles said with a quiet grin. "Who else would I be, after all?"

"We're going to need him to pick up Bel, at least," Elli said. "Whoever the hell he is."

"Mark's Cetagandan counterpart would be my best guess," said Naismith. "I can't think of any other power that would _bother_." His eyebrows crinkled in bemusement. "Though he might be older than Mark, which would technically make _him_ Mark instead of Mark."

"What?" Elli asked.

"If this guy's the second son, he's by definition Mark. The name's inherited, you know." Naismith clarified.

This was a complication Miles had not actually anticipated. "My given name is Miles," he said carefully. "Mark's self-image is fragile enough that I don't think stealing his name on a technicality would be a good idea."

Naismith gave him a sharp look. "You've met Mark?"

"No. I've kept an eye out for him, though. Thus this...intervention. I consider the probability Bharaputra would have sold Mark to our, er, good friend Baron Ryoval...high."

Naismith nodded slowly. "That was a...relatively well handled negotiation."

"Thank you." Miles said with a smile. "If you'll excuse me, Admiral, I left my ward locked in one of your cabins and I need to check in."

"You're not going _anywhere_ except the brig," Elli said shortly.

Naismith pursed his lips. "I suppose you _are_ going to have to be Lord Vorkosigan for the moment. I'll alert Elena to tell the crew we have a guest. Elli, please escort him wherever he wants to go and give me a full report later. Try and find out where our security breaches were too. Twin, clone, construct or whatever, it's completely unacceptable that he was able to get into the tactics room."

*

"This is a warship, not a _daycare_." Elli Quinn said in a chill voice as she surveyed Miles's disastrously messy cabin. Alys was curled up in the bed again, looking terrified.

"She's my cousin's daughter and she doesn't have anyone else to look after her right now," Miles said stiffly. "I'm doing the best I can."

Elli shook her head. With a last suspicious look at Miles, she called Naismith on her comlink.

"Miles, I need to talk to you securely."

A long pause. "Done. What is it?"

"Miles," Elli's voice was almost plaintive. "There's this little kid down here in cabin 44 that's jumpsick. She puked all over everything. Your _brother_ says she's a relative. Can you please deal with this?"

There was another pause, this one deeply baffled.

"The hell...? Never mind. I'll be right down."

In less than two minutes, Naismith and a commando bodyguard appeared at the door. The Admiral dismissed the bodyguard when he saw Elli. Stepping through the door, he looked around.

"Explain this," he said to Miles shortly.

Miles had gotten Alys's clothes washed when he'd washed his House uniform, but they had quickly attracted just as much filth as before. He was almost ashamed to pry her out of the corner and present her to his brother self. Roic had done a much better job of keeping her vaguely presentable.

"She does sort of look like your idiot cousin," Elli observed to Naismith, "but I think he might just be messing with me."

"Her name's Alys," Miles said. "She's sort of become my ward by default. I was hoping I could convince your people to take her off my hands."

"Hm." Naismith said vaguely. He stared at the girl, who stared back with wide eyes. "_Is_ she really Ivan's?"

"No, of course not," Miles said. His brother self looked slightly relieved. "She's Gregor's."

Naismith's face took on a closed expression. "That's not the sort of joke you make in front of an Imperial Security officer." he said menacingly.

Miles quirked an eyebrow. "A good Imperial Security officer would not assume it was a joke," he said. He fished under his bed for his Auditor's case and flipped it open. "You'll probably want this too,"

Naismith's's eyes widened as he spotted the gold gleam in the case and stepped carefully across the hazardous floor. Without the seal, an Auditor's chain was just a reworked ministerial chain of office. With the seal, it was something else entirely. The Admiral reached into the case to touch the heavy seal, and then drew his hand back before making contact with it. He turned to Miles, lips set together.

"Does this work?" Naismith asked neutrally. It was a subtle way of asking 'have you committed high treason by impersonating an Imperial Auditor', of course. He wondered if his brother-self would turn him in if he admitted to using it. Lieutenant Vorkosigan well might.

"Why don't you test it and see?" he asked with the barest hint of a smirk.

"Simon's going to have _kittens_," Naismith muttered agitatedly under his breath.

"Why the hell are you doing all this?" Elli asked suddenly. "What's in it for you? I swear, if you're trying to kill Miles I'll strangle you _myself_."

Miles shrugged. "I don't want to be anyone's pawn and I'm bound to run afoul of ImpSec eventually no matter how careful I am. Or Ryoval. Or nastier foes. I'd rather do it on my own terms."

*

Baron Fell was a bald man of medium height who looked cheerful in the green colors of his house. Miles suspected he had agreed to host the transfer on his station just for the chance to observe all three supposed Vorkosigan brothers. Miles and his brother self, aware of their audience stood about ten feet apart. They both had Dendarii bodyguards, but Miles's wore civilian clothes, had been given Barrayaran regulation haircuts, and were under strict orders not to open their mouths.

Naismith had told him to avoid the two Barons, but Miles carried on a polite conversation with Fell as Bharaputra's party secured the clones. This was mostly so he didn't have to watch. The cost of those few saved Dendarii lives was forty-nine clones. The way Lilly Durona Junior looked glowingly at Bharaputra and his wife broke his heart. He was bitterly glad when the twenty-odd girls were quickly ushered away.

Miles only spoke to Vasa Luigi Bharaputra to collect the two Barrayaran clones he had agreed to purchase. The older one was one of the eldest group and looked adult, while the other looked about ten and was much younger than that.

The Dendarii emerged from the shuttle after that: Thorne, Taura, other men and women he knew, still in battle armor. Taura carried Mark, who was limp and armorless - they must have had to stun him. The Dendarii all looked between Naismith and Miles in complete confusion.

"Stay with the shuttle, you'll be taking it back to the _Ariel_," Admiral Naismith told them. "except for Captain Thorne and Sergeant Taura, who are coming with me, and my brother's clone, who is going with my brother."

"You," Miles said softly and maliciously, "are not my brother, Naismith. Do remember that."

Naismith handled the last formalities with Bharaputra with chill displeasure, and the crowd made their way onto the _Peregrine_'s shuttle. Taura reluctantly surrendered Mark to Miles's two bodyguards, who lugged him in as well. After the hatch closed, Elli Quinn scanned for bugs and pronounced it clear.

"Let's get out of here," Naismith said tiredly. "Bel, damnit, that...we'll talk later."

"Yes, sir," the hermaphrodite captain of the _Ariel_ said quietly.

"Do you have any synergine here?" Miles asked.

"I...wouldn't wake him up." Bel said. It sounded glum. "What's going to happen to him now?"

"I'm turning him over to my brother and Barrayaran Imperial Security," Naismith said slowly. "Had to, to get him out."

Bel hissed in displeasure. "They'll shoot him."

"Unlikely, actually" Miles said.

"Your brother looking for a new body, there?" Bel snapped at Naismith. "Miles, you can't turn him over to the Barrayarans!"

"Calm down, Bel." Naismith said, irritated. They were all on edge. "I have some strings I can pull if I have to. They'll put him through the wringer a bit but I'm sure he'll be fine."

*

Over a week later, they reached Komarr orbit, and five days after that, Barrayar. Miles had been given his own cabin to stew in away from the crew. It had library access, as his brother self wasn't completely cruel. Meals were delivered to his room, and Naismith visited once or twice, fishing for information. Otherwise he had been pretty much left alone.

He hadn't seen Mark that whole time, though he'd asked to. Naismith's face had gone a little blank when he did. "Mark's not happy with any of us," his brother self had finally said with a gloomy look. "He liked one of the clone girls, or that's what Taura thinks. God, what a mess."

While a politely held prisoner, he was still basically a prisoner. He tried to relax and not let it get to him, but the lack of information about what was going on was maddening. He considered hacking the comconsole, but it was obvious he was being monitored and he was somehow sure Naismith had changed all of the ship's codes.

When they reached Barrayar, Naismith spent several hours closeted with the Chief of Imperial Security aboard one of Barrayar's orbital military stations. Probably over Alys, as Simon only spared Miles a curious and searching glance. He kept waiting to be more formally interrogated about the whole mess, but apparently nobody thought he was worth the trouble.

He had one last dinner with Naismith aboard the military station.

"What happens to me now?" he asked."Is this the point where you lock me up and throw away the key?" He'd meant for that to come out flippant, but it came across as nervous. Captivity _didn't_ suit him. He could feel himself losing forward momentum, and he knew that once he finally hit the downswing he'd be a complete wreck.

"ImpSec wishes. Countess Vorkosigan would like to see you, so you've been given a reprieve. You and Mark will be going downside soon to meet your parents."

"Not you?"

"No. I have other business."

"As Naismith? With us two on Barrayar? Your adversaries aren't idiots. They'll connect the dots."

"I _know_," Naismith said with a hint of agitation. "My cover is already fraying, and while I can surely confuse them a little longer...I don't know how much longer"

"I can be you on Barrayar if you want," Miles offered. "It's not hard. I don't really have anyone else to be, either."

Naismith pursed his lips. "That's...tempting. I think Illyan would object. If he _knew_ you were an assassin he'd be happy, like he is with Mark. Since he _doesn't_ know, he's being just a bit paranoid right now. It would help if you told him where the hell you came from."

"I died, you know," Miles said abruptly. "I don't remember...a lot of that." He traced one of the scars under his high collar. "There are some things I just can't help you with."

"What, cryo-freeze?" Naismith asked, startled.

"Someone was shooting at me," Miles said. "Might have thought I was someone else, but they hit me." With a slightly sour grin, he folded his hands behind his head. "So, how does this scenario strike you? Miles Vorkosigan, valiant courier officer, is accosted by pirates and sold to a foreign power. Tortured, broken, returned to his own side looking like hell. Except his own superiors think he might have been programmed to be a double agent, so while he's on medical leave they ask his father's armsmen to keep a look out for any unusual behavior..."

"Hmm." Naismith started grinning. "_That_ might work. Let me talk to Simon..."

*

Miles met Mark again on a military shuttle heading for the Vorbarr Sultana shuttleport. They had two guards, who Miles recognized as Vorkosigan armsmen in civilian attire and greeted politely by name. The guards conveyed them in the armored groundcar to Vorkosigan House.

Count Vorkosigan was tied up in Council business for the day, so they were greeted by Miles's mother. She gave Miles a concerned look, but mostly focused on Mark. Miles pleaded exhaustion, and retreated as soon as he could, ruthlessly abandoning his younger brother. Mark looked like he wished he had thought to do that first.

Unexpectedly, Miles's cousin Ivan Vorpatril arrived at the door just before dinner to summon Miles somewhere. From the look Ivan gave him, he at least had been briefed on the whole fiasco. Ivan confined his remarks in front of the Vorkosigan armsmen to trivialities, but once Miles was trapped in Ivan's car the discussion became much more intense.

_Trapped_ was the right word. Ivan's driving was insane. Despite his seizure disorder, Miles was tempted to try to talk Ivan into letting him take the wheel.

"I can't believe somebody cloned Miles _twice_," Ivan said for the second time. "That's just insane."

"It could be worse," Miles noted. "At least I'm not _your_ clone. That would be a dismal fate indeed. Where are we going?"

"That is not to be discussed."

"Ah," Miles said. "Gregor wants me? I'm not surprised." They must have finally finished the blood tests on Alys, then.

Ivan grimaced. "Here's some advice. Free advice even. You're crazy like Miles, but don't try be too clever here. _He_ won't appreciate it."

"I'll keep that in mind." Miles said blandly.

Ivan didn't say anything further as he weaved his way through Vorbarr Sultana's traffic, and soon Miles was deposited at Vorhartung Castle. He glanced around for Count Vorkosigan's aircar, but his father had apparently already decamped. That made things a little simpler.

Ivan acquired Gregor's man Kevi as an additional escort for their party almost immediately. Miles chatted with them as the three worked their way through the interminable corridors of the seat of the Council of Counts. As expected, no clues were provided other than the very interesting fact that it seemed nobody had told Kevi he wasn't Lord Vorkosigan. Indeed, he was announced as such, although Ivan quietly grimaced.

Gregor's private office, of course. The Emperor, wearing civilian dress, sat on a stool gazing out the window, dismissing Kevi with a wave of his hand. Simon Illyan played invisible behind the comconsole desk that dominated the room. A medium-height chair was set in front of the desk, facing the Emperor. He'd have Illyan at his back, though.

Miles calculated the lines of fire automatically and pursed his lips. Nodding amiably to Gregor, he focused on Simon. Illyan's lower body was concealed by the comconsole, especially from his vantage point, but from the man's body language he was lethally armed and twitchy as anything. Well then. He knew where he stood now.

Gregor cleared his throat and motioned to the chair. Miles hopped up on the seat, which was, yep, just tall enough that Illyan could instantly peg him over the desk.

The Emperor turned to fully face him, but said nothing. Miles folded his hands in his lap demurely and managed a slight smile.

"You are an interesting case, Vorkosigan," Gregor said. "Somewhat of an enigma."

No honorifics. Right. Miles spread his hands, palms out. "I really have no answer to that, sire."

Gregor's eyes narrowed. "And do you consider yourself my subject?"

No hesitation. "Yes. Do you consider yourself my liege-lord?"

A thoughtful pause. Gregor's face stayed unreadable. "You have sworn no oaths to me, Vorkosigan."

Miles didn't look at Illyan. "I am sure the Captain has told you something of my past."

"Something of it, yes." Gregor studied him further. "You made representations on behalf of Our government to Jackson's Whole. Including non-trivial financial commitments."

"I would submit it was cheaper both economically and politically than a drop mission, sire, which was what Naismith would have done. His loyalty to his brothers is absolute. He would have no more left Mark behind in the hands of Jacksonians than he would have left you." _And I didn't, Gregor. As you well remember._

Gregor raised both eyebrows. "Why do you call him Naismith?" he asked curiously.

"That was how I was introduced to him during my cryo-revival, sir. They were under some confusion as to who I was and rather hoped I was him." He hesitated. "Sire, while...intellectually, I understand we are, I mean myself and Lieutenant Vorkosigan, uh, not equivalent...uh." Tripping unexpectedly on his own tongue, Miles fell silent.

The Imperial eyebrows quirked.

"I do tend to view him as my Betan kid brother," Miles admitted.

"You are," Gregor said slowly, after a brief sideways glance at Illyan Miles couldn't read, "the younger son, Vorkosigan."

Miles chuckled without humor. "Well, sort of. Live fast die young. I'm biologically approaching forty and am so a little mellower than my kin. If none of us gets ourselves killed first, my brothers should outlive me by many decades. I've had to live my life at speed."

The Emperor looked thoughtful. "So I see. Do you find it difficult to play Miles?"

"Lord Vorkosigan is much more natural to me than the alternatives. I'm in no physical condition to be Naismith. And I could never play Mark." He smiled weakly.

"But who are you when you're not any of them?" Gregor was giving him a familiar exasperated look now.

"I lost...much of who I was...in the cryorevival, Sire. I don't want to be that person anymore, if you understand me. Afterwards..." Miles trailed off.

A piercing look. "Have you considered therapy?"

"I cope well enough, thank you. Besides," a small smile, "one would be hard-pressed to explain four of us."

"One is hard-pressed to explain three," Gregor noted.

"Just so. As you know, I have offered to double for Lord Vorkosigan as security considerations may require."

"Double for?" Gregor asked, "or usurp?" He leaned forward. "It seems to me, Vorkosigan, that though you may scruple at killing your brother, you would be perfectly happy to steal his birthright while he's not paying attention."

"Uh." Miles said.

The Emperor sighed.

"My brother thought it was a great plan," Miles offered.

Gregor's voice went very flat. "That is not reassuring."

Miles leaned back, uneasy. "My own dilemma is that due to the spectacular lack of documentation detailing my life, I have no assurances you two would ever accept except my bare word."

The Emperor's expression became, if anything, more neutral than before. Miles reminded himself uncomfortably that if he encouraged his hosts' already rampant paranoia further, he was liable to be hung on the walls at ImpSec indefinitely. He wished he could see Illyan's face right now, though it was probably just as well that Simon couldn't see and remember his in turn.

Gregor glanced sideways and made an ironic gesture. "I'm afraid he's all yours, Simon."

_Shit!_ Miles craned his neck back so that he could see Illyan out of the corner of his eye. Illyan held a needler casually trained on him - how long had he had that out?! - while his other hand sorted through an interrogation kit with practiced ease.

"Are you allergic to fast-penta, Vorkosigan?" Illyan asked mildly.

"It won't kill me outright," Miles replied with care, shifting in his seat to face his old boss over the back of the chair. "It does spike my blood pressure to unsafe levels. Given my circulatory system's a mess, a dose appropriate to my body weight might reduce possible complications." He stared at the needler, enormously disturbed. For Illyan to fear him enough to draw a lethal weapon in the Emperor's presence meant - he didn't know what it meant. Never mind that Simon was authorized to do so, one just didn't _do_ that. With an effort, Miles pulled his features to neutrality and unbuttoned his sleeve, presenting his left forearm wordlessly for the patch test.

He felt the prick of the test dot's application, but didn't look down. His gaze drifted to the needler's aperture before sliding back to rest on Simon. Something just didn't add up in this equation.

"What ship did you and the young girl you were travelling with take to Escobar?" Simon asked, after noting the time.

_He hasn't learned about Roic_, Miles thought. "We hitched a ride in a crossnetter out of the Nuovon Reach. The pilot knew a hazardous unplotted route."

Illyan's lip curled. "A dubious story."

Miles gave him a small smile. "I stashed the ship on the Dendarii warship _Bride of Suleim_. It should still be there."

"And the pilot and crew?"

"Pilot only. He died getting us through the last jump. The body is not retrievable."

Illyan's stare hardened. He probably read that as a confession of murder, Miles thought glumly.

"It must be a small vessel, then. Smaller than a fast-courier. A...crossnetter, you say?" Illyan, of course, did not recognize the term.

"Yes."

"Short-range at that size."

"I understand it usually operated from a station or larger vessel as a wormhole explorer, jumpscout, or communications relay."

"Usually?"

"When people were not fleeing for their lives from large explosions," Miles said. He tried to smile affably, but a bleak tone had crept into his voice. He looked sideways at the needler again. There was still something very wrong about how this situation was playing out, but he shifted consideration of that to his back-brain. There was of course some good-cop/bad-cop going on, but since Miles knew _exactly_ how much of a bad cop Illyan could be if he wanted to, that wasn't in the least reassuring.

Simon glanced at Miles' outstretched wrist. The weal hadn't presented itself yet, but Illyan seemed content to wait out the statutory five minutes. Time to bring Gregor back into the conversation, Miles thought. "How is Alys, anyway?" he asked.

Simon's mouth twisted. "Was that name your doing, Vorkosigan?"

Miles shook his head. "No. She, ah, came with it." He looked back at Gregor.

"Yes," the Emperor said coldly. "About my daughter."

_Ulp._ Miles tried to look attentive as opposed to wary. Gregor studied him. "Why Alys?"

"I really don't know the reasoning behind the name..." Miles temporized.

A flash of utter fury. "Miles," Gregor said ominously. "In all justice I should have you exposed in the square for an usurper. Do not play games with me."

Miles' eyebrows flew up. He wondered if Gregor had meant to use his first name, and suspected Gregor was wondering the same thing. How to play this? Submissive, he thought. They wouldn't expect _that_. "Very well. What do you want to know, Sire?"

"Who is her mother?" Gregor asked.

Well, they'd find out eventually. He supposed it was his duty to the Empress his father had given oath to to defuse the inevitable paranoid descent on her family as much as possible. "Laisa Toscane."

Gregor frowned. "As in the Komarran Toscanes?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Simon?" Gregor asked, a hint of bafflement in his voice.

"Laisa is the daughter and principal heir of the head of the Toscane Corporation." Illyan said. "She is twenty-seven."

"Have I ever met her?"

An introspective silence from Simon, as the man accessed his memory chip. "No."

"Her genetic material was similarly appropriated by a third party," Miles added helpfully. "If she knows anything about Alys, I'd be shocked."

"The plan was for you to be Regent." Gregor said suddenly. No fool he.

Miles's lip twisted. "All the responsibility with only a quarter the pageantry. You can get so much more done that way." Sensing Illyan's outraged glower burning on the back of his neck, he subsided.

"I don't see how you could expect to get an unrecognized female bastard past the Counts or the Ministers," the Emperor said with a completely humorless smile.

"It would have been much easier if you'd bothered to marry and produce an actual heir," Miles agreed facetiously, "but they eventually despaired of that." At Gregor's chill stare he schooled his expression into seriousness. "I think you underestimate my ingenuity, Sire. I could have made it happen if I wanted to. I decided not to go that route."

"Why not?" Gregor was back to being bemused by him, Miles thought.

"I'm not stupid enough to want your job."

"What _do_ you want?" Illyan asked.

Miles hesitated. _Go for it._ "There's a faint rumor or two out there that a jump internal to your Empire has been discovered. Some kind of erratic. In five, ten years it may come in-system enough to be a threat. The other end of the jump is in the Nuovo Brasilian Reach. This rumor is true and the wormhole exists, in this system, right now."

Gregor's face was utterly neutral.

He took a breath. "I had...friends in the Reach, and I was living there for a long time. Not very long ago at all our small settlement was smashed by the Nuovo Brasilian Outland Fleet. My creators had plans to ask for the protection of your Imperium against the Nuovos. But - they'd heard about Komarr, and the Solstice Massacre, and all that, and they'd heard about how crazy certain of your Imperial ancestors were. So they made a plan. That plan is...not possible anymore the way it was designed." There was a fair bit of total bullshit in all that, of course, but the whole truth was too crazy for anyone, even him. This, he thought, they would buy.

Miles stood and started pacing with agitation. "You have two options, of course, Sire. You can find the wormhole and take the war to them, or you can wait for the wars of the Reach to come to you. I assure you, they will."

"Sit down, Vorkosigan," Illyan said coldly. His thumb moved on one of the needler's controls.

Miles stopped and turned back. "Oh, come on," he said, irritated despite himself. "You wouldn't be waving that around if you planned on actually using it." He took another step, and then blinked as his view wavered into sudden terrible sharpness.

"_Oh shit,_" he hissed through his teeth.

As the world dissolved into colored confetti, Illyan shot him.

*

"You're awake," Illyan said, before Miles realized it himself. He lay with his eyes closed, nursing a serious post-stun headache combined with the usual post-seizure nastiness.

"How long was I out?" he asked, without opening his eyes. He could tell without looking that he was on a hospital bed, loosely restrained. They'd almost certainly done a medical scan of him, then. His eyes slitted open, but he couldn't focus yet.

"It has been an hour and fourteen minutes," Illyan said. "Your mother is on her way."

"On her way - here. And here is?" He pulled his head to the side, glancing around. "No, don't tell me. Imperial Security Headquarters. Sixth floor." Hell, this was the room they'd put Illyan in during his breakdown.

"Well done. What interests me, Vorkosigan," Illyan said, "is that you started to collapse well before I stunned you. And even after I stunned you, you kept twitching every so often, which made me suspect you were having some sort of fatal drug reaction to even the allergy test. I am... relieved to see I was wrong."

_No shit you are,_ Miles thought, _my mother would have killed you._ "I'm pretty sure I mentioned my seizure disorder to someone," he said vaguely. On the other hand, that someone had been Mark. He grimaced. And he thought he'd been _avoiding_ old mistakes. "That's what the chip in my head's for, by the way. In case you were wondering."

Illyan glanced at some scan readouts. "I was, in fact."

"I usually have this seizure stimulator, you see, that triggers my chip to produce a seizure so I don't have to worry about uncontrolled ones. But I had to leave it behind, and the activation signal's encrypted."

"You said that you were biologically older than Lord Vorkosigan, and my physicians confirm it." Illyan tapped his fingers on a cabinet. "Is this disorder something he will have to worry about as he ages?"

"God, I hope not," Miles muttered. "No. It's cryotrauma."

Countess Cordelia Vorkosigan swept into the room then, grim and in a hurry. Her eyes lit up with relief as she saw Miles awake. "You look like hell. What did they do to you?"

"What?" Miles asked, confused. He wriggled an arm out of one of his restraints and undid it absentmindedly. "Oh. Captain Illyan shot me with a needler, but I'm fine now. Is this a visit, or a rescue?"

"I did not -" Illyan began. The Countess looked coldly at him.

"Rescue. C'mon kid, we're heading home."

"It was a stunner," Illyan said defensively.

"Looked like a needler to me," Miles observed. "You were handling it like a lethal weapon."

"It is - sometimes. My department confiscated it from Count Vordrohza some years back...do you know who Count Vordrohza was?"

"Tried to shoot me on the floor of the Counts when I was eighteen," Miles said before his brain caught up with his mouth. Though really, that worked as well as any more calculated reply.

Simon was silent.

"Always wondered how he got the needler past the security screening," he added cheerfully. A needler pretending to be a stunner pretending to be a needler, hah! It must switch off between needler and stun settings. Good design.

"Hmm," Illyan said neutrally.

"So...which setting did you have it on during the meeting?" Miles asked curiously, cocking his head.

Illyan smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Have a good day, milady," he said to Miles's mother. "I'll have two of my men see you both out."

*

Ivan Vorpatril was cooling his heels outside Imperial Security Headquarters when Miles and the Countess exited. He looked a little worried.

"You're not dying, huh?" he said to Miles.

"I don't plan to," Miles replied. "I have too much left to do."


	2. Counterintelligence

"Excuse me, Corporal," Captain Galeni said. "Can you direct me to the office of Captain Illyan?"

The guard corporal nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, sir," he said. "Another floor down and across the way. The door's not labeled, but it has two guards on the corridor. It's next to the general administration office pool."

"Thank you, Corporal," Duv said gravely, and hoped this wasn't another runaround. He'd only been in this building a few times, all to talk to Allegre in Komarran Affairs. His first posting had been in Ops, and he'd had a series of Security postings to Komarr and the wider galaxy since then. While he knew ImpSec Komarr well, this concrete monstrosity of a building still intimidated him. As, of course, it had been designed to do.

It wasn't every day one was summoned by the Chief of Imperial Security. He'd been on Komarr when he'd received the recall orders, just after he'd completed an extremely sensitive mission for the Emperor himself. The summons had been without explanation. Had his performance been unsatisfactory? Or was he under suspicion... again? Duv sighed. No use on dwelling on possibilities.

It was just as well as he'd arrived an hour early. One didn't keep Simon Illyan waiting. The military shuttleport was holding his luggage. His orders were unclear about how long he'd be on Barrayar. Not long, he hoped. The gravity was weighing on him already.

The door was open. In the office beyond, a young dark-haired man with a junior captain's insignia sat at a desk. Two graying older men stood in front of the desk, talking. One wore a major general's uniform, while the other had the tabs of a senior captain.

The two men glanced out, squashing Duv's hope of retreating unnoticed. He was still significantly early. He looked them over to make sure, and then carefully saluted the right one.

Simon Illyan gravely returned the salute. "You're early, Captain," he noted.

"I just arrived from the shuttleport, sir." Duv said. "Would you like me to wait somewhere?"

"No," the Chief of Imperial Security said. "I'll see you now."

Duv had spent enough time in administration to know how awesome a statement that was. The general also raised his eyebrows. "Any business of mine, Simon?"

"Not...yet, Lucas," Illyan said. He frowned. "It may become so in time, though. Come in, Captain."

Beyond the outer office was Illyan's inner sanctum. The room was dominated by a massive comconsole desk. Illyan indicated a seat and settled behind the desk, hitting a control that closed and locked the door. The unassuming man laced his fingers together on top of the desk and studied Duv with a penetrating brown-eyed stare.

Duv sat stiffly straight, mentally bracing himself for the conversation ahead. Illyan never forgot a misstep by his subordinates - indeed, he couldn't. Duv necessarily had to be cautious.

"Relax," Illyan said dryly. "You're not in trouble. I find myself in need of your particular talents for a very sensitive operation."

That was more or less exactly what General Rathjens had said weeks earlier about the peculiar meeting Duv had been ordered to arrange between the Emperor and Komarran heiress Laisa Toscane. He sat stiffly silent, wondering uneasily what Illyan had in mind. He was getting a little old for fieldwork, and he doubted his ability to pass as a Komarran separatist after so long in the military.

"You worked with Miles Vorkosigan for a short period of time four years ago," Illyan said. "What were your impressions of him?"

That wasn't what he had been expecting, but this turn of conversation made him more uneasy, not less. "Extremely intelligent," he started carefully. "Hyperactive. From what I saw, a skilled commander." He hesitated and then added, "Insubordinate as all get out, and more talkative than is ideal in a covert operative. Excessively young for his position."

Illyan smiled thinly.

"I believe you have the recordings of our captivity together on Earth," Duv mentioned. Indeed, Illyan probably remembered that time better than Duv himself.

"I do," Illyan said. "That's why you're here. That and other things."

He opened a folder and drew out some flimsies.

"Lord Vorkosigan is currently on administrative leave," Illyan said. "Medical, officially."

Well, nobody would doubt that.

"He took some severe injuries during a mission, and was missing in action for some time. It is our belief that he may have been compromised during that period."

Duv blinked.

"Involuntarily?" he asked carefully.

Illyan's eyes were hard. "I do not have enough information to reliably determine this."

"Compromised by who?"

"Unknown at this time."

"I... see."

Illyan frowned. "During his ... enforced sabbatical... Lord Vorkosigan has decided to take a series of courses at the Imperial University in Vorbarr Sultana, He has arranged admission, and will be beginning his classes in three days. His schedule is ambitious, including four courses from their school of law, and three rather eclectic lower level courses."

Duv's brows knitted. Illyan continued. "Imperial Security has arranged for you to have a visiting researcher appointment at the University. You will be assisting Professora Vorthys with her course on the late Time of Isolation. In addition you will be given copies of all coursework Lord Vorkosigan turns in. You are to report your impressions of it."

Duv blinked again, momentarily speechless. "You want me to grade papers?" he asked slowly.

"Do you consider yourself unqualified to do so?" Illyan countered.

"No, but..."

"You will put yourself at the service of the Professora in that, then," Illyan said. "You may come into contact with her husband, Lord Auditor Vorthys. He is a professor as well, and is teaching an introductory engineering failure analysis course that Lord Vorkosigan," Illyan frowned minutely, "is also taking. If Lord Vorkosigan comes up in your conversations with either the Professora or her husband, you are to report their impressions as well as your own."

"Yes, sir." He remembered Professora Vorthys. Perhaps she even remembered him, though it had been years. "But won't he recognize me?"

"Lord Vorkosigan's injuries were severe. It is possible he will not. In any case, you will not be working directly with him. You may encounter him in passing, but I will ask that you not engage him in conversation unless it is unavoidable. You are not to discuss any secure information with him, even if he is cleared for it."

Duv nodded. "That may be difficult to pull off without alerting him."

"Lord Vorkosigan is well aware that he is under 27-hour surveillance. You will be receiving daily reports from Count Vorkosigan's armsman Pym, and you will have full access to the lieutenant's comconsole records."

"...ah." Duv said. Not mild suspicion then. "What precisely do you expect me to accomplish? Do you want me to try to prove that he is working for a foreign power?"

"I want your unbiased impressions of him," Illyan said. "What he's up to. What his motivations are. How dangerous he is." He reached into a drawer and took out a code-key. "This will give you access to all but the last year of his file. You may only view it inside this building. I suggest you spend the next day or so familiarizing yourself with it, and then speak to Professora Vorthys about your grading responsibilities as her teaching assistant."

"Who will I be reporting to, sir?" Duv asked.

"Myself. I will be debriefing you in one month's time. Dismissed."

Duv stood, but the door was still locked. He glanced back at the Chief of Imperial Security, who looked thoughtful. "There is a complicating factor," Illyan added. "Lord Vorkosigan's brother is also in town. Do bear that in mind."

He keyed the door open. Duv stepped out, mind racing in thought. He could already tell this was going to be an interesting autumn.

*

Duv's first sight of Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan on campus was from afar. He paused, looking at the little man with a cane, walking awkwardly across the green, trailed by a large man and a float pallet. Vorkosigan seemed to have shrunk in only a few short years, prematurely aged. Perhaps Galeni had just remembered him as larger than life.

The young Vorkosigan might be short and stunted, but he loomed large over Galeni's life. His military record had been fascinating, both Vorkosigan's short reports and the corroborating evidence from the men Illyan had set to watch him. He wasn't the first of those, by any means. There were letters in there from Prime Minister Vorkosigan, and Simon Illyan, and a host of superior officers and instructors. Some were flattering, some not. His access to the record cut off a year before the present, leaving no clues to what had happened in that missing time.

Most of what he read supported his preconceptions. Vorkosigan was both brilliant and absolutely mad in that peculiar Vor way that made any student of Barrayaran history want to run for the exits. He had the sort of madness that changed worlds because it would never back down. Duv privately thought that Illyan had to be insane to set him loose on the galaxy.

His comlink chimed. It was the Professora, apologetically canceling their planned lunch date and asking him to meet her before class. "Something's come up," she said cheerily.

Duv frowned. That gave him an hour to kill, but trapped him on campus. His eyes followed Vorkosigan. The Lieutenant was early too, and Helen Vorthys's class was his first of the day.

_Hm_, he thought. Vorkosigan's bodyguard noticed his stare and stared evenly back before nodding infinitesimally in recognition.

Something was up, certainly. He stopped for a coffee before going to investigate.

"Oh, hello David," the Professora said when he entered her classroom. "This is absolutely fascinating. I thought he'd be bringing digitized copies..."

Spread out on the table in front of the room on a temporary cover were several large flimsy reproductions as well a large parchment sheet and two ancient and yellowed paper documents. Helen Vorthys stood at the table, examining one of them.

"Oh, no, our collection isn't digitized," Lord Vorkosigan observed. He wasn't using his cane now, but he leaned subtly against the table for support. "Count Piotr's archivist was, er, conservative. The position's been vacant for years. It's a semi-hereditary post, but the daughter took a scholarship to Beta Colony and never came back." He glanced back and spotted Duv. A series of expressions crossed his face too fast to follow, averaging out to amusement. "Hello, Duv. What are you doing here?"

Duv passed the Professora a stack of graded assignments and stared down at the manuscripts. The parchment and papers were legible, but damaged by what he glumly recognized as half-assed early preservation techniques. The flimsies were typed copies of what were apparently additional manuscripts not present. The documents were a mix of English and Russian, all in Cyrillic as befit their apparent age.

"Is this show and tell?" he asked dryly. Vorkosigan was probably bored. His grasp of the material was far above the level of his fellow students, which begged the question of why he was bothering to take the class in the first place.

"Not quite." After a subtle double-take Vorkosigan grinned at Galeni's shirt. "Relapsing into academia, Doctor Galeni? I think that's the least formal I've ever seen you dress."

Duv looked down at the 'Imperial University Military History: Speaking for the Dead' t-shirt dating from his long ago grad student days and shrugged before turning his attention back to the manuscripts.

"We're covering myths today," Vorkosigan explained. "The Maiden of the Lake and all that."

Oh, right. That was his lake. "Are these public records?"

"Actually, the District's public records don't go this far back. These are the private household records, or what survives of them. We don't generally let researchers in."

One of the flimsies had a typed reproduction of the betrothal between Selig Vorkosigan and his unlucky bride. He glanced over it. It took a moment to recognize and decipher the Russian, but after that he could read it adequately. "Huh," he said. "And what really happened, according to the Vorkosigan archives?"

"Well, you'd have to sort through a lot of carbonized wreckage to know for sure," Vorkosigan said. "The Surleau records were destroyed when the Cetagandans blew the castle up. The Vashnoi records were destroyed when the Cetagandans blew the city up. These fragments are from Vorkosigan House, which managed to avoid being blown up only because some ghem lord took a fancy to it."

"And you're going to let undergraduates paw all over them?" There were smeary oily smudges on the ancient parchment already from prior handling.

"None of them are over four hundred years old," Vorkosigan said. "Relax. The ones that haven't been copied have probably been moldering for at least a couple centuries. I figured I might as well air them out, and let people see what a document that age really looks like."

"They're still irreplaceable," Duv said, looking down at the parchment.

Vorkosigan's eyebrows rose. "The information might be. The sheepskin's just sheepskin, really. Unlike some people, I don't feel the need to fetishize it."

Duv frowned. Vorkosigan grinned. The Professora finished skimming over the graded assignments and returned the lieutenant's to him.

"Thank you," Vorkosigan murmured, not even glancing at the grade. As a few other students trickled in, the Vor lord primly took his seat. His armsman glanced significantly at Duv before stepping out in the hall.

Lunch with Sergeant Pym was edifying. They left Vorkosigan's ongoing surveillance to the outer perimeter and went to a local cafe to discuss their mutual charge in oblique terms. While little had happened since they had last spoken, the conversation made Duv think more soberly about the position he was in.

What would he do if Lieutenant Vorkosigan did have treasonous intent? He hadn't taken the possibility seriously before, but Pym's grim fear chilled him. Lieutenant Vorkosigan was the son of the prime minister and the cousin of the Emperor. If some foreign power had broken him, could he be repaired? Would Aral Vorkosigan permit his son's destruction, if necessary?

Duv recalled reports on Lord Vorkosigan's earlier treason trial, both Illyan's notes and then the head of Domestic Affairs's additions after Illyan's incarceration. Illyan was Count Vorkosigan's man as much as he was the Emperor's. Galeni, too, owed his advancement to Count Vorkosigan's patronage of the Komarran integration process. Could any of them claim to be objective about this? Could he?

There was no way to avoid the politics. He could only try to serve the Emperor, and Komarr through the Emperor, as best he could.

By the time they returned to campus, Vorthys's class was breaking up. Vorkosigan was carefully replacing the manuscripts in their protective folders and stacking them on the pallet when they arrived. After Pym silently took over that task. Vorkosigan picked up his cane and flashed another odd smile at Duv.

Duv received the latest set of assignments from the Professora. It made him feel twenty-five again. After all, this wasn't his first time as Helen Vorthys's teaching assistant. She smiled cheerily at him before turning back to the Vor lord.

"Actually, Lord Vorkosigan, if you have anything on your great-grandfather in the last decades of the Time of Isolation one of my graduate students would be thrilled if she could examine it," the Professora said.

"Which one?" Vorkosigan asked. "The eighth Count? There's a fair bit. She'd have to be cleared by ImpSec, though."

"Who would she contact for that?"

"Mother, probably." Vorkosigan glanced at his chrono and made his Vorish farewells. He gave her a last cheerful smile and then said "Duv, are you coming?"

"Coming where?" Duv asked cautiously. The armsman guided the pallet out the door.

Vorkosigan's eyes gleamed. "No, seriously, Duv. You'll want to see this. Come on." It was phrased more like an order than a request. Duv's brows wrinkled.

Though nothing had been said between them, Duv knew that Vorkosigan knew why he was here. That gave the Vor lord an advantage. Duv _still_ had no idea what Vorkosigan was trying to accomplish. Vorkosigan didn't have another class until Botany in two hours. He was up to something else, and for whatever reason he wanted witnesses.

"Very well," Duv said, looking curiously at Pym, who shrugged.

The University had been built before climate control, so the long banks of windows in the hall were open to let in the cool autumn air. Vorkosigan led them down the hall to the freight lift bank and through another corridor to an occupied classroom. A professor and twelve older graduate students looked up as Vorkosigan strolled into the room.

Duv halted at the door, while Pym followed. Looking at the presentation holo, he froze, swallowed, and then forced himself to calm down. If Miles Vorkosigan was going to raise his banner against the Emperor, Professer Tanoy's Theories of Imperial Succession class probably wasn't the place he'd do it.

Tanoy peered at Vorkosigan. "Are you lost?" he asked disapprovingly. "You're not one of my students."

"Oh, I didn't sign up," Vorkosigan said. "It'd have been vetoed instantly." He smiled. "I did find something really neat in the old Count's working files, though and I thought I'd bring it in." He reached for the float-pallet, carefully retrieving a document cage designed to transport a valuable item undisturbed. Wandering up to the front desk, he laid the document cage flat on the front table and carefully swung it open.

Tanoy looked down dubiously, clearly about to toss the mutant interloper out. His eyes narrowed, then widened. Duv slipped in the door.

"Where did you get this?" the professor asked. There was sudden suspicion in his voice.

Crossing the room, Duv looked over Vorkosigan's head at the document. His eyebrows rose. The largest signature on Vorkosigan's parchment lacked the elaborate flourishes it had sported in later years, but was nevertheless recognizable as Ezar Vorbarra's. The top portion of the parchment, above the signature, was calligraphed in black and gold on unblemished parchment. There were signatures underneath it, and handwritten messages as well.

_In submission,_ the first read, _Xav Aral Vorbarra, for himself and the heirs of his will and body_.

There was a nearly illegible childish scrawl in Roman letters under Vorbarra's signature. _Padma_

_In submission,_ a second column read in Cyrillic, beside Vorbarra's signature. _Piotr Vorkosigan, for his blood descendants._

The fourth signature was underneath General Vorkosigan's. It was crabbed and slightly awkward, and read _Aral Vorkosigan_

Underneath the signatures, a full half of the parchment was blank.

"There's nothing like this in the Imperial Archives," Tanoy muttered, fascinated.

"The Emperor would have had his own copy, but not all of the Imperial papers are open to researchers, of course." Vorkosigan shrugged. "Some of Ezar's files were lost when Mother torched the Residence."

"You're Lord Vorkosigan," Tanoy realized, taken aback.

Vorkosigan bowed, suddenly less casual and more formal. His eyes were harder now, his posture painfully straight. There was a new aura about him, that of a man who was used to being obeyed without question. It was giving Galeni mental whiplash. He remembered young Lieutenant Vorkosigan as more fiendishly weaselly than intimidating. "At your service," he said.

"We weren't, ah, expecting you, m'lord." Professor Tanoy said. He was clearly frantically reworking lesson plans in his head.

"People rarely do." The graduate students were staring at Vorkosigan now.

Tanoy cleared his throat. "We haven't yet reached the point in the course where we discuss Prince Xav's claims-" he started. Vorkosigan threw a hand out.

"My interest in the matter is more in making sure no claim in my name is put forward."

"Of course, m'lord. We only discuss the theoretical basis..."

"Historically, it has mostly boiled down to who has the biggest army," the Vor lord said dryly. "In any case, the reason this document caught my eye in that it seems to be the only written record of the peculiar arrangement between my grandfather, Xav Vorbarra, and Emperor Ezar. It looks to have been drafted just after the Vorbarra armsmen yielded to Xav and just before Yuri was executed in Vorhartung."

"Irreplaceable, then," Duv said, trying to decipher the calligraphy at the top.

"I suspect Ivan has his own signed copy, but yes. It's an important document."

"Ivan _Vorpatril_?" Duv asked.

Vorkosigan's look at him was sharp and amused. "He inherited Prince Xav's papers. They're in a storage unit somewhere"

"_Lieutenant Vorpatril_ is keeping Prince Xav's _personal papers_ in a storage unit?"

"I think so, yes. Lady Alys rented or disposed of Xav's various residences after Ivan went off to the Academy." At Duv's look of horror, Vorkosigan hastened to reassure him. "I think it's climate controlled."

"It's interesting that General Vorkosigan signed personally," Tanoy said. "May I make a copy of this for my own records?"

"Mmm... no. Your students can look at this now, though. As for my grandfather..." Vorkosigan shrugged. "My father was a minor. If his brother had lived, or his uncle, things might have been different."

Duv wondered what he meant by that. So did Tanoy, by his thoughtful look.

"This is actually a fairly typical form for a record of oath taking," Vorkosigan mentioned to the students as they filed up to look at the document. "Two Vor witnesses, each willing to bear witness against the other."

"General Vorkosigan and Prince Xav-" Tanoy began.

"...cordially despised each other," Vorkosigan finished, amused. "Not natural allies, by any means. Too many atrocities happened in the Dendarii woods for Xav to forget, and the Prince was far too galactic for my grandfather."

"But he married Xav's daughter," Duv said.

"Politics. And she liked him."

"Did you know the Prince?" Duv asked, trying to do the math.

"Oh no. He died more than fifteen years before I was born."

"I thought you were of the elder line?" Duv said, remembering the byzantine discussions he'd had with the ambassador to Earth on precedence issues. "Why did Vorpatril inherit the Prince's papers?"

Vorkosigan chuckled. "Well, he wasn't about to let my grandfather go through them. Politics again. Wouldn't that have been a Conservative coup. Actually, Xav disinherited my father after the incident with his first wife, in favor of Lord Vorpatril."

"Of course," Tanoy said, "that had no effect on the succession. Admiral Vorkosigan had already inherited his Imperial title."

"The position of the government is that Admiral Vorkosigan holds no place in the Imperial succession," Lord Vorkosigan reminded gently.

"Indeed, m'lord." Tanoy looked a bit more subdued. He peered at Galeni. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

"This is Dr. Galeni," Vorkosigan said in a bland tone. "My assistant."

Duv frowned but did not comment.

"Ah, you were one of Professor Vortashpula's students!" Tanoy said, brightening. "I remember you. The Komarran! I thought you went into the Service."

No good answer to that. He nodded.

"You must admit, in the absence of a heir the question of proper legal succession is increasingly urgent," Tanoy continued, turning his attention back to the diminutive Vor lord.

"Gregor will marry in his own time," The first hint of annoyance evidenced itself in Lord Vorkosigan's tone. He looked up at Tanoy, almost daring him to push the issue further. The professor made a placating gesture and dropped the subject.

Duv carefully restarted the conversation. "Prince Xav disinherited your father, Lord Vorkosigan?"

"Ah, well, yes. From what I understand, General Vorkosigan always felt that my father took too much after the Prince, and the Prince felt he took too much after the General. My father..." Vorkosigan hesitated, for the first time clearly self-censoring. He shrugged.

"I never heard of any of this," Duv said. The hints of a story behind Vorkosigan's obliqueness roused his curiosity.

"There was no dramatic denouement. He was just excluded from the will."

"I suppose it's not like your father was left destitute."

"True." A faint smile. "He wasn't set to inherit much in any case. Ivan's father Lord Vorpatril was orphaned by Yuri, and the old Prince and his wife took him in. It was always the understanding that he would inherit that part of the Prince's estate that didn't revert to the Imperium."

"My apologies, m'lord," Pym spoke up, "but you have an appointment in one half hour."

Vorkosigan gave him a sharp look. Duv, well briefed on Vorkosigan's schedule, knew the armsman was lying through his teeth. But the Vor lord could take a hint. "Yes, I suppose we should get going." He carefully reopaqued the display cage, and handed it to Pym to load on the pallet.

Tanoy gave the document one last covetous look, and Vorkosigan a deep bow. "A honor to make your acquaintance, m'lord." Vorkosigan murmured something Vorishly neutral in reply and gave the assembled students a brief smile. Pym closed the door behind the three of them as they exited.

There was a dangerous tension now in evidence between Vorkosigan and his armsman. It struck Duv as very strange.

"You should have spoken to the Count first," Pym said.

"He would have said no. And that's no fun." Lord Vorkosigan's tone was idly amused, but he looked evenly at Pym until Pym backed down. Lifting his chin, the armsman stared stiffly ahead into space.

"What were you about to say about your father in there?" Duv asked the lieutenant.

"Ah." Vorkosigan seemed relieved to have the interruption. The silence between him and Pym had deepened awkwardly. "He wasn't the world's most stable man in his twenties, I was about to say. But then, who is?"

Sometimes Vorkosigan seemed positively ancient for twenty-eight.

*

Lieutenant Vorpatril's choice in dining establishments was spectacular. Duv mentally noted the location for future reference. The Minister of War was dining not two tables down with an associate, and Duv had a sense that if he'd spent time in Domestic Affairs he'd recognize more of the patrons. There was a mix of young Vor officers and their young ladies on the ground floor, but they'd been shepherded to the floor above, which was almost exclusively male and an older crowd. An anti-eavesdropping field inaudibly suppressed the sound of conversation between tables.

It was small plates, of course, most of them real meat from the south mountain forest reserves, or fish from Lac Granet. A small luxury on half-terraformed Barrayar, the venison would have been unthinkably expensive on Duv's own homeworld. Komarr only raised guinea pig for meat, otherwise relying on vat products. Duv ordered within his budget, while Vorpatril cheerfully outspent him.

There was nothing like getting shot at with a man to improve his opinion of you, and Lord Vorpatril apparently had forgiven the early morning wake-up calls he'd so frequently received on Earth. The lieutenant had matured some over the past four years, though he had moved effortlessly in high society even at twenty-four. Handsome and single, he had yet to settle down, though his evenings were apparently booked a week or two in advance.

Even without his present complication, Duv would have cultivated Ivan. Vorpatril was careful to avoid party politics, which made him a useful ally for a foreigner in navigating them.

"I was surprised to get your call," Ivan said, leaning back in his chair. "You have duty in the capital now? I haven't seen you back in Ops." Duv's posting at headquarters early in his career had briefly overlapped with Ensign Vorpatril's.

"Temporarily. Sleeping in the witness apartments for now. I don't know how long I'll be here."

"I thought you were on Komarr."

"I was. I might be going back. Hopefully before winter, the weather's miserable." Duv made a 'vagaries of the Service' gesture and got an answering grin from Vorpatril in return.

"You should be able to arrange a transfer. They're short of native guides, I reckon." Ivan said cheerily. No offense intended, surely, but Duv gave him a look anyway. "It's interesting to see you again."

"Your name came up at work," Duv said, and watched Ivan twitch slightly. "I didn't realize you'd inherited Prince Xav's papers."

"Oh, is that what this is about?"

"Ah..."

Vorpatril looked highly amused. "You don't want the pleasure of my company, you want my library! I should have known. Aren't you out of the history business, Duv?"

"Not as much as you think. My degree's in military history. I spent six months in that branch of the Service after Earth when they couldn't think of anything better to do with me." He smiled. "Somebody mentioned you were keeping them in a storage unit. I was wondering if you'd had them cataloged."

"Oh no. It would have been too political. They only release the papers of people like Yuri. Old Xav's reputation is safe enough, I'd like to keep it that way. Dangerous man to bring up on Barrayar. Better he quietly disappear." Vorpatril's face was serious. "Until Gregor gets married, it's a topic best not discussed. Given your job you should know that."

What was best not discussed? Prince Xav? Lord Vorpatril had been happy to capitalize on his blood connections when it came to picking up girls on Earth. Here, closer to home, he seemed more nervous about them. "My concern is about the storage conditions," Duv offered after a moment."So that when the time comes, they can be read. As a whole, they must be an irreplaceable look at the period after the end of the Time of Isolation."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Vorpatril shook his head. "You're wasted in the military, you know. You should have been a librarian."

And just what did he mean by that? "You're wasted in the military too, Vorpatril. Maybe you should have been a dance instructor. Or a bartender." Their eyes met over the table, amused.

"My mother would never have let me get away with something like that," the lieutenant said ruefully.

A comfortable pause followed, as the next plate arrived. "About your cousin," Duv said slowly.

Vorpatil went still. "Which cousin?" he asked delicately.

"Vorkosigan."

"Miles?" Ivan's eyebrows were up.

"Yes, that one," Duv said patiently. There was also the clone, he supposed.

The lieutenant frowned. "What about him?"

"I don't suppose you have any idea what he's trying to accomplish with this university stint?"

The lieutenant tapped a fork against his plate, an absent fidget. His voice lowered, but not enough to arouse suspicion. "I can't talk about this, Duv."

"Ah?" What the _hell_ was going on?

"If you were cleared you wouldn't be asking."

Duv grunted under his breath. "I'm an analyst. They're asking me to analyze something without giving me all the data. You're all treating him like he stabbed a flag officer or sold a pack of agents to the Cetas."

"Let's not talk about this here," Vorpatril said uneasily.

"Where?" Duv pursued, leaning forward.

The lieutenant's eyes shifted sideways."I really can't-"

Duv's work comlink buzzed at his hip, startling him into spilling a few drops of wine. He frowned down at his lap, and checked to see who was calling. _WITHHELD_, it said. Frowning again, he brought the comlink to his ear. "Galeni speaking," he said brusquely.

"Captain Galeni," Duv took a moment to place the unremarkable voice. "Consider yourself on duty as of now. I will be expecting you in one hour at the residence, in uniform."

"Ah, which residence, sir?" Duv asked.

A short pause. "The Imperial Residence, Captain," the Chief of Imperial Security said neutrally.

"Yes, sir." Duv said, quelled. Damn, did he even have time to get his dress greens? He looked down at his civilian clothes. "I will be there as soon as possible."

"Captain Illyan?" Vorpatril guessed. His eyebrows were up. "That was fast. But he does has ears everywhere."

"This wasn't about that." _I think_. Duv worked out travel times in his head and bit his lip. "Ah...could you do the favor of driving me to ImpSec? I need to be in uniform at the Imperial Residence in an hour."

"So you're Illyan's dogsbody now?"

"Apparently so," Duv said.

"Oh, God, my sympathies," the lieutenant said. "I try to avoid him whenever possible myself. Harder than you'd think, he's at all my mother's parties. Usually it's Miles who gets the random errands."

"Not this month."

Ivan's smile faded. "No." Damnit, what was going on here? "I really am going to have to report this conversation," he added, signaling for the bill.

Duv gave him a strained smile. "You do that." He straightened in his seat. "You know Illyan better than I. Any advice for dealing with him?"

"He never forgets anything."

Duv made a slight face. Common knowledge.

Vorpatril frowned back. "No, I mean it. People know that, but they don't _understand_ it. Even when he's not saying anything about it, he's cross-checking you in his head. Don't lie to him, and if he corrects you on something, listen. He'll forgive a screw-up, but he won't forgive the same screw-up twice. He can't afford to at his level. People think that if they're on their best behavior, they'll impress him, but he can see through that in an instant."

"You mean I shouldn't try to impersonate a Barrayaran at him?" Duv asked dryly.

Ivan's eyebrows rose. "Is that what you're doing? You don't come across as Komarran at all, these days."

"Hah. Self-preservation. It's brutal serving in Solstice - the culture of the military and the local culture are deeply and fundamentally at odds. Sometimes the Service feels...like swimming lessons at the Academy. If I don't make exactly the right moves, I'll get sucked under without a ripple and you'll all say good riddance. It'd be hard enough if they gave me enough to do my job properly, but..." he took a deep breath. Ivan wasn't an appropriate party to vent to.

Vorpatril sighed. "It's _politics_, Captain," he said. "You're just fucked."

*

Lieutenant Vorpatril not only drove Duv to ImpSec, he was courteous enough to drive him to the Residence as well. The building was a looming dark hulk in the autumn evening. Standing at the perimeter security post, Duv resisted the urge to adjust his collar. The dress uniform felt confining and awkward after so long not wearing it.

A hard-faced man in the black and silver Vorbarra livery collected him and escorted him up a back staircase. A reception of some sort was going on on the second floor, but Duv was steered past it and into a set of furnished but clearly unoccupied rooms.

Simon Illyan appeared shortly thereafter, waving an annoyed recognition in response to Duv's salute. "I need you to run an interrogation," he said without preamble.

"Here?" Duv asked, a little surprised. He had interrogation training, and some practical experience, but it wasn't his primary skill set. Illyan himself must be vastly more qualified. "Sir," he added.

"I would prefer to have this done as soon as possible." The Chief of Imperial Security opened a folder and handed Duv a freshly printed stack of flimsies. The top page had started out as a list of twenty questions, but was heavily annotated with handwritten notes. Several questions were crossed out, one was written in. Duv read down the list. Treason figured strongly in the first few questions. There was a question about illegally acquiring the Emperor's genetic material. Another question underneath was firmly crossed out.

"Who is the suspect?" Duv asked. The questions got more bizarre as they went. Near the bottom, the name 'Vorkosigan' jumped out at him. "Never mind that, what's the crime?" This wasn't even a starting point. There was the shape of something big behind the questions, but damned if he could tell what it was. He shifted uneasily. Who was 'Alys', anyway?

"Next page," Illyan said. Duv flipped to the next sheet. It was the first page of Laisa Toscane's intelligence file. A few sentences had been blocked out. He went to the next page, but the file was truncated. What was there instead was an old image of Lieutenant Vorkosigan, looking younger and more feckless. Vorkosigan hadn't aged well since.

"Dr. Toscane was on Komarr," Duv said slowly. "What's she doing here?" To a certain extent, he didn't want to know. Barrayar hadn't been in her plans three weeks ago, when he'd had brought her to a secret meeting with Emperor Gregor. Things had clearly changed since then, which made Duv uneasy. Laisa Toscane was a beautiful, intelligent woman. Emperor Gregor was the absolute ruler of Barrayar and surely used to getting what he wanted. If he wanted her, there was really no appeal.

"That's not necessary for you to know," Illyan said.

"I can't ask the right follow-up questions without context, sir."

"You will confine yourself to the questions on the list, Captain Galeni."

Duv paused, trying to marshal his arguments in advance. "If we're dragging her all the way to Barrayar and putting her under fast-penta in the first place, sir, for God's sake why aren't we doing it properly? With a few hours and perhaps a short term memory blocker we could run a complete interrogation. I don't know what this is, but I know what it's not."

"This isn't an interrogation," Illyan said. "Security has merely been asked to clear her."

"If you don't need an interrogator, why do you need me?"

A fractional nod from Illyan. He'd asked the right question. "By request, the questioning will be private and no recording or transcript of it will be made. You are the only Komarran I have with the requisite security clearance to handle the issues that may come up. After your interview with her, I would like you to give me your opinion on whether it is safe to permit the Emperor's betrothal to Miss Toscane."

_Betrothal...?_ "They just met three weeks ago," Duv said blankly. Or had they? There had been a small child with the Emperor, but she couldn't possibly be Laisa's, that made no sense. He frowned, reading the list of questions again in a new light. Suddenly, some of them became understandable. "Er, _was_ that child on Komarr Dr. Toscane's daughter?"

Illyan didn't ask 'which child', thankfully, or play coy. "Their daughter, yes. Neither has any idea about how this came to pass."

Duv's eyebrows shot up.

"It certainly didn't happen the usual way," Illyan said in a very dry tone.

"An engagement seems... sudden," Duv ventured cautiously after a moment.

"I agree. However, the Emperor appears to be in his right mind, and the young lady appears to be willing. My security concerns have been firmly overruled."

"Do you suspect some plot?"

"It is my duty to do so," Illyan said calmly. "In my estimation, this questioning should uncover sixty-five percent of possible connubial threats to the security of the Imperium."

"And if whatever's going on is in the other thirty-five percent?"

Illyan's brows arched. "Captain Galeni, you seem to be under the impression that it's possible to ensure that an individual is 'safe'. It's not. I could write a much more comprehensive interrogation designed to pick up any dissent and any private treason, but nobody would pass it. That's why the security apparatuses turned on Emperor Yuri, because he tried to use fast-penta to enforce perfect and total loyalty to him. Everyone faced death, because everybody was guilty. This questionnaire is not enormously different from the one we use to screen our personnel before inducing fast-penta immunity. I will have to work with this woman in the future, as, perhaps, will you. Be content."

Duv nodded. He uneasily glanced through the flimsies again, stopping at the image of the lieutenant. "And what does Lord Vorkosigan have to do with all this?" he asked.

Illyan's stare hardened "He is intimately involved, but playing dumb about the details. With me. Which is unwise."

Duv felt the incipient twinges of a headache coming on. "If I may ask - does this all make any more sense from your perspective, sir?"

The Chief grimaced. "Come along, Captain. It's not polite to keep the poor woman waiting."

Laisa Toscane was seated at a coffee table in the next room, looking slightly wan in a conservatively-cut aquamarine dress. The Emperor of Barrayar sat beside her, holding one of her delicate hands with his own. Both looked up as Illyan and Duv entered.

Gregor Vorbarra was dressed in conservative civilian formal attire. He was clearly neglecting his duties as reception host to be up here. He nodded gravely at Illyan, gave Laisa's hand a quiet squeeze, and rose to leave.

"This won't hurt, milady," Illyan said after the Emperor was gone. Without further ceremony, he removed a hypospray from a uniform pocket, and reached out to flip her unresisting wrist over. He looked up at her and she nodded slightly at him. With expert care, he slid the hypospray over the appropriate vein and injected her. After waiting a few seconds to see the drug begin to take effect, he straightened, handed Duv the antagonist, turned abruptly, and left the room.

Duv looked down at his list of questions, so as not to look at Laisa. It was an absolute breach of ImpSec procedure to have her alone with him in this condition. He could do _anything_ to her, and she'd just smile.

He went through some standard preliminary questions, establishing that she thought she was who she was supposed to be, before beginning on the list of questions. She was boilingly social under the drug, smiling brilliantly at him as she babbled on. It made him feel a little sick. He'd never interrogated a woman before. She was beautiful even dazed and drug-fogged.

He confirmed that she was not planning harm to the Emperor's person, that she was not plotting to destroy the Imperium, that she knew nothing about the creation of the child Alys, and that she'd never met Lieutenant Vorkosigan before.

In her answers, she betrayed other things. She liked the Emperor, but she was also subtly afraid of him. Marriage intimidated her, and so did Barrayar. It was too big, too populous, too foreign. He stopped her each time as she began to babble further, hating to see her so psychologically naked.

He was glad, when the questions were done, and he had no excuse to condemn her. He pressed the antagonist to her wrist, and backed away. He almost felt like apologizing, but it would be meaningless to do so.

"That... wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," she said. "Thank you, Captain Galeni."

He wasn't Duv anymore to her. Perhaps that was just as well. 'It's good to see you again' hovered on his tongue, but he quashed the words before they came out. He probably had never had a chance with her, but she was very firmly off-limits now. "It went well," he said lamely. He nodded at her and went to the door.

Illyan was down the hall, leaning against a door frame and studying the wall hangings. He looked up as Duv exited and strode over. "A moment, Dr. Toscane," he said to her, and then indicated Duv should follow him with a jerk of his head.

"Well?" he asked patiently.

"Her story checks out. She's never met Lord Vorkosigan, either."

Illyan nodded. "Very well." He took his flimsies back, his cool brown eyes seeming to study Duv carefully. "You have ten years left in your term of service, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Duv said. "It'll be twenty years then."

"And you're thirty-eight now," the Chief said. He seemed to come to a decision. "Old enough for rank." Reaching into a pocket, he retrieved a set of the silver-barred blue tabs of a second-class captain. He offered them wordlessly, and Duv accepted them.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"I have an opening in my Analysis section, a headquarters posting. I want you to consider it."

Duv's expression froze. That sort of posting came with a strict requirement to undergo a security screening and the fast-penta allergy induction. It was a step to higher things, but there was a price. _This post, and my patronage, are yours,_ Illyan was saying. _If you submit. If you let us rip your mind._ Standard questionnaire or no, _somebody_ would be asking him about Ser Galen. "I will," he said neutrally.

"Good," Illyan said. One of his tiny smiles flashed across his face again. "It would be nice if we could get some use out of you while you're with us. I'll be seeing you again soon, Captain Galeni."


	3. Deep Water

"You have been given a most singular honor, ghem-General Benin," Miles said with a faint smile. "I am reliably informed that you are the first ghem-lord to cross this threshold since ghem-General Yenaro was routed from the capital in my grandfather's day."

"Indeed," the Count said. "General Vorkosigan refused categorically to have any in the house while he lived. As my son's guest, of course, you are quite welcome."

"Thank you, Count Vorkosigan," Benin said gravely.

"I would be happy to show you around the public rooms," Miles said. "We have a number of other galactic guests tonight – I am very sorry that the haut Pel could not attend."

"You understand it was inappropriate to invite her."

Miles grinned. "I was thinking it was a shame for such an accomplished lady to come all this way only to sit in a bubble in the Cetagandan Embassy. Surely she can do that at home, after all."

"She was more amused than annoyed, I must admit. Nevertheless."

"I stand chastised." Miles said with a little bow. Casting around the room, he spotted his cousin in dress greens. "Ivan!" he said cheerfully.

"Hello coz," Ivan said affably, looking down at him. Ivan knew, of course, but he could be a startlingly good actor.

"A pleasure to meet you again, Lord Vorpatril." Benin murmured.

Vorpatril quirked a brow at Benin. "Your father's friends are giving you the eye, you know," he said to Miles. It was true, too - there were at least three General Staff officers watching him and Benin closely, including Commodore Koudelka.

"I didn't actually invite him," Miles said hastily. "He's here because my mother wants to talk to him." From Benin's reaction this was clearly news to him.

"Oh?" the ghem-General said.

"_I_ wanted to talk to Pel," Miles added gloomily.

Vorkosigan House was bustling in the buildup to the Imperial Wedding. Along with carefully selected local guests, the ambassadors from Beta Colony and Vervain were present with parts of their entourages. In addition, a few other Hegen Hub dignitaries and the Marilacan delegation sent to work out a mutual defense treaty were mingling. Miles was especially looking forward to meeting the Marilacans, even if not in his own person, so to speak. It was headed by General Oliver, one of the men he had rescued from Dagoola IV what seemed like a lifetime ago. He had emerged the leader of the Marilacan resistance, but Miles had been necessarily out of contact with him since the Marilacan victory in his own timeline as well as this one.

His brother Mark, dressed in subdued civilian garb, was sitting on an armchair in the next room, watching the crowd. It was still very strange to Miles to see Mark nearly thin. The armsmen had finally stopped mistaking them for each other about three months back as Mark had slowly put on weight. Sparing him from Ryoval's worst wasn't something Miles exactly regretted, but without that experience Mark was much more subdued than the self-assured, flamboyant businessman of his own lifetime. Saner, certainly, but much less sure of himself.

"I did not realize your brother would be here, Lord Vorkosigan," Benin said after a short silence.

Miles glanced in said brother's direction. "Mark has been living at home for some time now."

"And yourself - have you been keeping busy with your duties as a courier officer?" Benin had the very slightest of smiles on his face.

"Unfortunately, I've been on medical leave for the last eight months."

Benin's face-paint masked any reaction he might have had. "Nothing too debilitating, I hope."

"The usual," Miles said curtly. He pointed out a few features of mild historical interest before circling back towards the entryway. Captain Illyan was playing wallflower in the doorway, but Miles didn't spare him a glance, instead exchanging polite greetings with Lord and Lady Vorob'yev. He was deliberately making himself visible, and so was unsurprised when a man behind him took advantage of a pause in the conversation.

"Miles."

Miles schooled his face to blankness as he turned and looked at the name on the foreign uniform instead of instantly reacting. "Ah. General Oliver." His gaze scanned sideways at Oliver's companions. "I'm sorry, that was impolite. You must be the Marilacan delegation, then."

"I got your invitation," Oliver said, "But I've got to say this wasn't exactly the context I was expecting for our next meeting."

Miles permitted himself a cool smile. "I believe you may be operating under some misapprehension. We've not met. Are you perhaps looking for my _brother_ Miles? He's not here right now."

Oliver was not a particularly subtle man. His eyebrows climbed. Benin, damn him, smirked at Miles before turning to face the Marilacans.

The ghem-general's blood-red dress uniform blended into the chaotic many-colored Barrayaran background, but his Imperial pattern facepaint was instantly recognizable to any foe of the Ceta satrapies. Murderous hostility boiled off Oliver and his companions in waves, but Benin stood his ground.

"I've heard about your exploits on Marilac, General Oliver," Miles said steadily. "I wish you could have met my grandfather, General Piotr Vorkosigan. It seems every generation or so it becomes necessary to teach the Cetas a lesson about trying to conquer their neighbors."

"I've researched General Vorkosigan's tactics, of course," Oliver said, though his eyes said _what the hell, Miles?_ Fortunately, they were distracted by a commotion by the door - right on cue.

"Admiral Miles Naismith," Armsman Pym announced. "Captain Bel Thorne. Sergeant Taura."

Miles's brother self swept through the door with perfect aplomb, flanked by Thorne with Taura as bodyguard. All were in velvet Dendarii dress grays, subdued compared to the local finery. Count Vorkosigan was now nowhere in sight, but his wife excused herself from a group of visiting Betan dignitaries to greet the new guests.

"Hi mom," Admiral Naismith said cheerfully, with a deep bow. "How's Barrayar been treating you these days?"

Countess Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan laughed, grabbed her son by his shoulders, and held him at arm's length. They grinned delightedly at each other before Naismith disentangled himself and presented his guests. Taura watched the crowd warily, while Bel exchanged enthusiastic and almost flirtatious Betan greetings with the Countess.

Miles straightened his back and stood to attention, aware he too was now drawing eyes. Benin's lips parted in confusion, but he was too skilled to betray himself otherwise. The Marilacans looked shocked.

"The guest list makes more sense now." Lord Vorob'yev said quietly to Miles. "I was wondering what your father was up to."

"This was Countess Vorkosigan's brainchild, actually," Miles murmured back. Well, more Naismith's, but he couldn't say that in public.

"The resemblance is truly startling," Vorob'yev said with another glance in Naismith's direction.

"I understand that was the point." Miles said dryly. "In any case, I am drawing far too many of his assassins, and while Imperial Security has found it amusing in the past to keep everybody else's intelligence just as confused as ours was, _that_ has to stop."

Benin smiled thinly. The turn the conversation had taken was of course more for his benefit than anyone else's, and he knew it.

Naismith turned, met Oliver's eyes, and strolled over to the Marilacans. With the lethal-looking Taura looming over him, people gave him plenty of room.

"You've done well for yourself, General," Naismith said softly. "But I expected no less."

"Brother Miles," Oliver said with deep respect. "It is _good_ to see you." After a handclasp, Naismith began to greet each of the other Marilacans in turn and - was that Pitt's thug lieutenant, the one who had tried to kill him? Shit, it was. Miles hadn't recognized him with his hair grown out.

Naismith almost didn't either. His startled brother self studied Pitt's lieutenant a long moment. "I'm afraid I never learned your name," he said finally.

The man's voice was low. "Sergeant Rivera, sir." There came another loaded silence. Nearby conversations began to trail off. Rivera swallowed, and his words came out in a rush. "I'm sorry I tried to strangle you, sir. I didn't understand...I didn't mean..."

Naismith glanced at Oliver and raised a 'he been behaving?' eyebrow, holding up a hand to stem the flow of words.

"Thought he had a right," Oliver said.

"Just so." Naismith said quietly. He looked up at Rivera and took a deep breath. "I regret Pitt, you know. Should have found another way to handle that situation." His lip twisted. "I'm better than that. But by that point my barbarian blood was showing through. You made it here, and you conquered hell and you conquered tyranny to get here. You don't need to apologize to me. You probably need to make amends to a whole lot of other people - but not to me. Understand?"

Rivera nodded nervelessly.

"Barbarian blood?" Oliver asked, somewhat amused.

"Oh yes." Naismith said quietly. A razor grin. "I'm only five-eighths Betan, after all."

"Less than half a Barrayaran is the usual joke." Miles said blandly. Naismith and the Marilacans turned to stare at him with narrowed eyes.

"Okay, Miles," Oliver said slowly. "I wasn't going to ask, but what's the deal with him?"

"Ah." Naismith considered both Miles and the growing audience. A cheerful grin crossed his features. "Lord Vorkosigan here is my evil twin, I'm afraid."

"_I'm_ the evil twin now?!" Miles sputtered, indignant despite himself.

"Why are you both named Miles?" Oliver asked bemusedly.

"It's a...very long story." his brother self murmured.

"He mugged me for my Betan passport when he was fifteen and never returned it." Miles said with a glower.

Naismith merely grinned. "We'll talk later," he told Oliver crisply. His gaze settled on Benin and that grin sharpened, becoming something much more malicious as he stalked over. "Who's your friend, Miles?"

In return, Miles swept him a bow that was as sarcastic as he could make it. "Naismith, may I make known to you my acquaintance ghem-General Dag Benin, Cetagandan Imperial Security. He works in - ah - what _do_ you do these days, Benin?"

Dag introduced himself with his flowery full Celestial Garden title, remaining robotically polite despite obvious crogglement. Well-trained, that man.

"Ghem-General, this is Miles Naismith, my, er..." He shuffled through ways to finish that sentence properly in his head.

"Twin brother once removed," Naismith prompted, his lips pursed in fleeting amusement.

"Dubiously sane clone," Miles finished with a slight scowl.

"As opposed to your...other clone?"

"Mark has different issues," Miles said.

Naismith's eyebrows drew in. "Where'd he go anyway? I just saw him." He raised his voice. "You there, Mark?"

There was a mumbled "Oh, _God._" from about four meters away. Miles craned his neck to see Mark watching the two of them with an appalled expression on his face. He had just been raiding the food tables, and had a pastry in one hand and a drink in the other. As Naismith's lip twitched in amusement, Mark glowered at them both quite convincingly.

"You missed your cue." his brother self called with a slight grin.

"You two," Mark said rather thickly, "_deserve_ each other." He put down his drink. "I'll be in the library until you're done with your _street theater_ in here." He stalked off.

"He is the...Komarran clone?" Benin asked.

"Mmm." Miles said noncommittally.

"And what about you?" Benin asked Naismith, fishing blatantly for information.

"I'll have you know I am actually the true heir," Naismith replied cheerfully. "I was kidnapped as an infant by mountain kobolds, who wanted a human child. They replaced me with their malicious and grotesquely deformed little kobold baby in the nursery Winterfair midnight and no-one was ever the wiser. Joke was on the kobolds, of course. Like my brother, they were staggeringly dull, so I skipped out on them at eight, pretended I was a very short sixteen-year-old, and joined a itinerant backwoods theatre company in the Dendarii Mountains..."

"My mother promised me you'd be on your best behavior." Miles growled.

"Heh. She said the same of you." Naismith said. They looked thoughtfully at each other.

"_Behave_, boys," Countess Vorkosigan warned amusedly in passing, interrupting what otherwise threatened to become a long staring contest. Miles cleared his throat.

"...Right." Naismith said, snapping back to the conversation. He glanced at Benin as if daring him to comment.

"Indulge my curiosity, Admiral," Benin said. "Do you consider yourself the son of Aral Vorkosigan?"

"They'd be obliged to hang me if I claimed that." Naismith replied. "In any case, I sprung fully formed from the head of my mother, who was always the better tactician of the two."

"Countess Vorkosigan is a woman of galactic reputation," Benin said. "Not least as an assassin. It...surprises me that your father permits people as dangerous as yourself and your clone in his house and presence."

Naismith gave Benin an odd look. "I don't cross my mother, ghem-General. If you and your Emperor are smart, neither will you."

Bel Thorne reappeared just then, trailing a pack of Betans that it took great pleasure in introducing to Admiral Naismith. Finding himself peripheral to the conversation, Miles quietly took his leave, got a plate of appetizers, and went to find Mark to apologize for their earlier behavior. Unfortunately, Mark had descended into a particularly prickly mood and was hearing none of it. He'd try again in the morning.

When he got back, his eyebrows rose as he realized the conversation had lapsed into classified territory - namely the Dagoola IV rescue. After a startled glance at Illyan, Miles realized it wasn't classified for the Marilacans. Oliver was speaking intensely to the Betan ambassador, who looked scandalized. He sensed his brother-self's hand at play in setting up this particular chat. Benin lurked at the periphery, observing disapprovingly.

"Oh, anyone can conquer a world," Naismith replied to the ambassador as Miles made his way towards him. He was smiling. "Worlds conquer themselves all the time. You don't even need the elegant sadism of Cetagandan Psy-Ops to really break people. What requires _real_ artistry... is to set a world free." He wiggled his hands in imitation of a bird taking flight. "The ghem-lords don't understand that."

Miles added a few carefully chosen First Cetagandan War anecdotes to the discussion as the conversation continued. Benin was looking increasingly angry in his chill fashion, but Miles was still caught off-guard when the ghem-general's self-control suddenly snapped.

"The Barrayarans have their hands soaked in blood, and not just from Komarr," he growled. "My grandfather was a century-captain in the Sixth Legion. His half-brother, a ghem-lieutenant, was tortured to death and scalped by guerillas. He told me it was a common occurance to see dead babies with their throats slashed hanging from trees. Sometimes they put bombs in the babies. I am told my grandmother, after she was kidnapped, had her eyes put out, her tongue cut out, and was ritually disemboweled."

"Your _grandmother_?" Miles said, his eyebrows flying up. He thought about that for a moment, shocked, and then swore under his breath in Russian. "That last, uh, doesn't sound like a war crime. I think that might have been a field execution for treason. There was probably a trial." Highborn treason, which meant, shit, _Gran'da_ had personally been there. But that meant... "Your grandmother was _Vor_?" he sputtered. He'd seen Benin's ImpSec file - which did mention his low-ranking father was not legitimate and had been admitted to the ghem-comrades only on sufferance - but surely some analyst would have caught the Barrayaran connection...why had this never come up before?

He shared a wild glance with Naismith, who was biting his tongue to prevent a similar outburst.

Benin looked blank."No, she was part of our administrative staff..."

Miles shook his head. "That's a proper field treason execution of a Count's subject." When starvation wasn't fast enough, it was considered acceptable to hurry the process along by cutting out the tongue and the stomach, though pulping the forebrain through the eye sockets had only been added after the Cetas successfully cryo-froze and revived the prominent collaborator affectionately known by schoolchildren as Zombie Lord Vorinnis. "A foreign women would simply not have been killed like that. Not even a ghem-woman. It had to have been a Vor woman of high rank, and it had to have been serious treason."

"Not just schtupping the occupiers, huh?" Naismith murmured. His eyebrows were up.

"The Sixth was deployed in Vorkosigan's District during the latter half of the First Cetagandan War," Miles added for the benefit of both the Marilacans and the increasingly appalled Betans. _Damage control time._ "They're primarily famous for nuking Vorkosigan Vashnoi on their way out after they were ripped to shreds by Dendarii guerillas. Killed two hundred and thirty thousand civilians in the city and outlands to get at my grandfather, and he wasn't even there."

"About par for the course, in my experience," Bel Thorne observed from behind Naismith. "Ceta assassin squads are more enthusiastic than efficient."

"Vor woman of high rank," Miles muttered to himself. He glanced at Ivan. "It would almost have to be Madame Vorgutalov, wouldn't it?"

"Er..." Ivan said. "Was she the one who tried to seduce your grandfather and then went after him with her Vorfemme blade?"

"Yes," Aral Vorkosigan said in a neutral tone as he strolled over to join them. Miles's father had been ignoring his sons politely most of the night, but it seemed that was no longer an option for him. "However, that is not a topic for discussion in mixed company." He eyed them all quellingly. This probably wasn't the best aspect of Barrayaran history to bring up in front of galactics, true...

"That's _hilarious_." Naismith said gleefully to the discomfited ghem-general, ignoring the Count. "Do you realize that means we're cousins?"

"We're not _close_ cousins," Miles objected. "She was born a Vorwyn. They've always had it in for us, and the Cetas pretty much promised her father the District once they succeeded in wiping my family out." He traced family trees in his head. "Fifth...no." He was off a generation. "Fourth cousins once removed. That's distant enough that even Vor recognize no kinship." There might be a cross-connection through the Vorrutyers closer than that, but he wasn't drunk enough yet to handle Vorrutyer genealogy.

Benin was beginning to look trapped. "I do think you're mistaken," he said courteously.

"I'm not, and you know it," Miles said. His lip twisted. "A Ceta woman would have had reliable contraception."

"Do your _superior officers_ know about this?" Naismith hooted.

"I think..." Miles started before being cut off by his father saying "Miles." in a neutral tone. Giving the Count a respectful nod, he shut his mouth. Naismith looked like he was dying to say something, but restricted himself to a broad, knowing grin. He wandered off, his eyes dancing.

"Countess Vorkosigan desires to speak with you, ghem-general." Aral Vorkosigan said. "If you will come this way?" It was not a request.

Benin was a little intimidated, Miles judged, but more by the Count than the thought of speaking with the Countess. An understandable mistake. He left them to it.

After selecting a few more appetizers - he missed Ma Kosti deeply - he found a chair and watched the party. His legs were giving him trouble tonight, and he needed some time off his feet. Unsurprisingly, he found himself mostly watching his brother-self.

Naismith was making a serious effort to charm the galactics and discreetly impress the locals. It was fascinating to watch from the outside. He'd always found vids of himself in full scam mode a little embarrassing, but in person the effect was much more convincing.

The younger guests orbited more closely around the food than their elders. Miles made small talk with Ivan, who had been blown off by a woman in the Vervani delegation and was scouting for targets.

"Do you think I have a chance with that galactic captain?" Ivan asked thoughtfully.

"Which galactic captain?" Miles asked idly.

"I don't know why I'm asking _you_," his cousin added. "The Dendarii one."

Miles's eyes widened. _Ooh._ Ivan had somehow _missed_ that Bel was a herm the first time around, at Tau Verde.

"Don't you think Captain Thorne might be a little old for you?" he hazarded, trying not to giggle evilly.

"I appreciate an experienced lady." Ivan said stiffly.

"Well, the earring says you're good to go..."

"Thanks, Miles." Ivan said, and ambled across the room. Miles watched, shaking his head in deep amusement. His cousin would no doubt arrange for some arcane revenge later - though on the other hand, he and Bel might hit it off...hm. Maybe this had been a bad idea.

Meeting his brother-self's eyes from across the room, Miles subtly directed the admiral's attention to the interplay between Ivan and Bel. It went on much longer than he would have thought before Naismith put poor Ivan out of his misery. He was less amused by Kareen Koudelka's persistent inquiries about Naismith, and felt obliged to warn her off out of some peculiar loyalty to poor Mark. With a nod towards Taura, he gently explained that Kareen was a little short for the Admiral's tastes and probably shouldn't bother.

Eventually Benin strode back into the room, escorted by a Vorkosigan armsmen who he immediately shed. Some of his prior anger was still evident in the way he walked, but he looked considerably more thoughtful now. Spotting Miles, he hesitated and then walked over.

"She's not what I...expected." Benin said slowly. Miles smiled tightly. Countess Vorkosigan had no doubt taken the opportunity to drop broad hints about what the Barrayaran response would be should further attempts be made on the lives of her two sons who weren't space admirals.

"I approve heartily of Momma Naismith," his brother self interrupted unexpectedly, sliding through Benin's personal space to reach a chair next to Miles. "She is a woman very much after my own heart."

"A defector to Barrayar?" Benin murmured. Uneasy around Taura, he shifted sideways.

"Tsk." Naismith said to Benin. "They'd hang me, you know. It's been threatened."

"They nearly hanged _me_," Miles said, leaning back in his chair, "which I thought was really quite unfair."

"That's Barrayaran politics for you," his brother self said. "More lethal than a nerve disruptor and twice as brain-numbing. You've killed what, three counts for treason in the past thirty years?"

"Plus another five that were killed or suicided before they could be tried, yes."

"Your system is _deranged_, is what it is. Total barbarism with a borrowed veneer of pointless Cetagandan pageantry. 'One would not think that Empire could survive, as starships Vorish cavalry displace', et cetera et cetera."

Miles mouth curved upwards. "I don't see you running your fleet as a Betan democracy, mercenary."

"My people," Naismith said with somewhat injured dignity, "are volunteers."

"Privateers," Miles corrected with a slight smirk. "Your people are privateers."

Naismith shrugged eloquently. "It's a living." The admiral settled comfortably in the chair and smiled brightly across Miles at Benin.

"What do you _want_, Naismith?" Miles grumbled.

Naismith tented his hands and grinned, before reaching into a uniform pocket and pulling out a small, featureless data card. He handed it silently to Taura, who smiled - with fangs- and held it out to the ghem-General.

"My card," Naismith said, "in case your various intelligence services ever wish to get in touch. It goes to a text-only dropbox on Escobar."

"I don't believe we have anything to say to you...Admiral."

"No?" Naismith said quietly. "Your empire might be wise to consider offering a cease-fire, ghem-General. I can and will prosecute this private war further, and it has been shown that you _cannot_ stop me. I have no love of war for the sake of war, but as long as I am shot at I will shoot back."

"Our empire has five million men under arms," Benin said coldly. "We are not afraid of you."

"Your empire has nevertheless surely noticed it is not _winning_." Naismith's grin was savage.

"You are," Benin said, "quite insane."

Naismith's eyes glinted. "I was created by the Betan Mental Health Board as part of a secret plot to lure my mother back into therapy, you know. I've seen the alternative, and I much prefer madness..."

Miles chuckled quietly. Benin's expression set.

Naismith smiled like a cat. "Do take my card, ghem-General or I shall have to deliver it much more creatively some other time. You wouldn't like that. It might involve explosions."

Benin slowly accepted the datacard from Taura, holding it like it itself was a bomb about to go off.

"I think," Naismith said, "that we're done here."

They weren't, but that was another story.


	4. Turning Point

There were times that Miles Vorkosigan felt like a ghost in his own home.

His sense of being out of place was strongest in the settings most familiar to him, and living in Vorkosigan House jangled uncomfortably at his sense of self. When last he'd resided here he had been its undisputed master, but now he found himself a closely watched prisoner under his father's roof.

The problem of course was not that he was out of place, but that he was out of time. The Vorkosigan House he had owned had been seared into ash by Nuovo Brasilian atomics in their brazen strike on Vorbarr Sultana itself. The Nuovos had poured through a secret wormhole, catching the Barrayaran Imperium's governmental and military hierarchies completely flat-footed.

With a strange double vision Miles could almost see that other Vorkosigan House when he walked through this one - the massive stones shattered, the whole of it ruined and abandoned open to the sky. There were rooms that he did not ever go into, for fear of meeting the dead. Though he had not seen its final moments, his imagination had since filled in every brutal detail.

Miles had been off-world when the hammer fell, which was all that had saved him. He had been briefly trapped on an orbital military transfer station as every warship in the system raced to the defense. Most of them had been too late. The war quickly engulfed everything as Nuovo Outland Fleet surged into the system just under two light-minutes from Barrayar.

Due to the high eccentricity of the wormhole's orbit, Outland Fleet's emerging null velocity was nearly six hundred thousand kilometers per hour relative to Barrayar. The Nuovos had made the most of this speed boost, accelerating at maximum and slashing through the Barrayaran high orbitals only ten minutes after arrival and eight minutes after the declaration of war and demand for unconditional surrender was received.

By the time Miles had realized something was going on and reached Jumppoint Station 0's tactics room, it was all over but the radioactive fallout. He'd escaped the Nuovon forces by taking an experimental crossnetter through the blind wormhole, hoping to ride the tuned resonances to Sergyar. How he had ended up on Escobar nearly ten years displaced in time instead was a matter for the five-space physicists. Miles himself had long since accepted that the only plausible explanation for his life was that the universe was just fucking with him.

Sometimes he regretted not confessing the whole sordid tale as soon as he came home, but he was reluctant to share what he felt was his own private grief. He had built up a wall between his feelings and what he saw as his duty, and he did not dare breach it lest it destroy him. His gentle imprisonment within Vorkosigan House was mostly unresented, although he was glad for the four months they had let him spend taking courses at the Imperial University.

Officially he was Lord Vorkosigan, or at least playing Lord Vorkosigan. His other self kept himself quite busy playing Admiral Naismith, and had only returned last night after eight months away on unknown duties. His parents had been hosting a reception, and the three Vorkosigan sons (including a reluctant Mark) had worked together to thoroughly confuse the Cetagandans and several other galactic powers. It had all been highly amusing, although they'd gone well over the line of good taste once or twice.

Miles had an official engagement later in the day, so he was in full House uniform with all the trappings. His cane clicked on the wooden floor as he made his way to breakfast. He hadn't used it at the party last night, and in revenge his legs were aching painfully. His father's armsman Pym paced him carefully the whole way to the breakfast room. Since Chief of Imperial Security Simon Illyan continued to be convinced he was up to something malign, he was never left unwatched.

"Good morning, Miles." his mother said as he entered the breakfast room. His father and brothers looked up alertly. Miles nodded to them cordially and chose breakfast off the assortment on the sideboard. The table was set for only five, so he had no choice in his seat between his mother and Mark.

He leaned the wooden cane against the back of his chair and sat down. Mark was jumpier than usual, and Miles realized this would be the first time all three of them had met in anything resembling privacy. He'd carefully tried to cultivate Mark over the past months, with limited success.

"We were just talking about you," Naismith grinned around a bite of toast. His voice had returned to his native Barrayaran accent, and he now sounded identical to Mark.

"So I see." Miles sat down and leaned an elbow on the table, watching his brother-self. Naismith looked down at Miles's plate and shook his head. They'd picked the same food and arranged it nearly identically.

"You're disturbingly good at that." his brother self said. "Illyan keeps commenting on it in his updates." Reading Naismith's accompanying gesture, Miles had no trouble interpreting 'that' as 'being me'. "Last night, did you...?"

"Yes," Miles said, inferring the question. They'd been following each others' mental scripts for most of the party. After the third or fourth desired straight line he'd handed his brother self, Naismith had unbent enough to toss a few back. Mark had quickly fled to avoid being caught in the crossfire.

His brother self gave him a look. Count Vorkosigan glanced up from his Ministerial correspondence and smiled slightly in private amusement.

"I should mention my superior officers are now convinced you're having us on about the Nuovos."

Miles swallowed a bit of hard-boiled egg before replying. "Since when did you listen to your superior officers?"

"Let's clarify," Naismith said, putting his fork down. "I've spent three and a half months trawling through the Nuovon Reach for information on an extremely boring convoy contract, and _I_ think you're having us on. We picked up your accomplice, by the way."

"Oh, good," Miles said, buttering his toast. Roic had been ordered to turn himself in after six months, so he was unsurprised. He _was_ a little surprised that Naismith hadn't fast-penta'd the man in the weeks he'd been in custody. Illyan must have been paranoid enough about fleet security leaks to forbid field interrogation. Still, the hour of reckoning was clearly drawing nigh. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Naismith's body language exuded deep frustration. He propped his chin on one hand and stared balefully across the table.

"I'm glad you made it home for the wedding, Miles," the Countess said smoothly to Naismith, "although you won't have much of a view. Lady Alys has put you with the diplomatic delegations, I'm afraid. Wear your nice uniform and try not to cause a scene."

His other self digested her statement. "They want me to be Admiral Naismith at Gregor's wedding?" he asked with an odd expression. "Who decided _that_? Don't _I_ get a say?"

Miles's lip twitched. He'd seen this coming. Simon Illyan had seen this coming. Cordelia Vorkosigan had definitely seen this coming. But his brother self was used to having his cake and eating it too, living and breathing Admiral Naismith yet still being able to come home to Lord Vorkosigan any time he desired.

"You can stop," the Countess said firmly, "whenever you want, you know. Nobody is making you go out and kill people. Simon would be just as happy to have you closer to home, I expect."

"I have," Naismith said loftily, "_duties_, mother."

Miles winced.

"I still think this whole marriage is likely part of some sinister plot," Naismith added with another glower at Miles. "What I got from Simon was awfully vague on details, and all I got from Gregor was nonsensical lovestruck burbling. Yes, it's about time we had an Empress, but this whole secret child investigation is way too convoluted even _without_ him marrying one of the key witnesses. And she's _Komarran_. What if we end up having to hang her for treason or something?" He looked exasperated. "I have no idea what he was thinking."

"Laisa Toscane," Count Vorkosigan rumbled, "is a very sensible and charismatic woman and not the worst choice Gregor could make by far."

Miles stayed silent. By virtue of his quiet imprisonment he had had no contact whatsoever with the Empress-to-be, and no further contact with her daughter the young princess. To his profound irritation, nobody would tell him _anything_ about what was going on with them. He'd taken to reading gossip tabloids (less reliably censored than the official news service) on the sly out of desperation.

On one level he was relieved that despite the new and strange context of their relationship Gregor had once more found himself in love with Dr. Toscane. _But_. Miles knew Laisa, and knew how bone-deep her loyalty to and fear for her home planet ran. One of his recurring nightmares about Gregor's new marriage was that the bride was going through with it more for the sake of Imperial peace than love. Or worse, just for the sake of her young daughter. The most invasive side of Imperial Security had surely completely upended her life and the lives of her family, and she might have considered it dangerous to rebuff the Emperor's affections. _Lie back and think of Komarr_ was no recipe for domestic harmony in the Imperial household, and Gregor was merely a man, as imperfect as any other.

There wasn't anything _he_ could do about all that, though. He had to trust the Countess to intervene if necessary.

"We probably won't be seeing much of each other the rest of the week," he told Naismith serenely. "I tried to plead infirmity, but your Aunt Alys still has me doing meal engagements up to the wedding." For security reasons Gregor had drafted Henri Vorvolk for his Second this time, but Miles had been unable to avoid the whole circus as entirely as he might wish.

"Doesn't that assume that Illyan's not arresting you tonight?" his brother self asked, eyes glinting.

Miles drew his lips back in a slight sneer.

"I don't get it," Mark interrupted suddenly.

"Yes, Mark?" The Countess asked, alert and encouraging.

"I thought he," a thumb at Miles. "was Cetagandan. So what was that ridiculous show last night all about? Wouldn't they know? And why would you be arresting him now?"

"It's increasingly beginning to appear that my brother here is a _local_ product," Naismith said grimly. "Which begs all sorts of questions that we'd really like answered."

"Imperial Security operates under the default assumption that anything that comes to their attention is a Cetagandan plot," Miles added to Mark. "There's no point in trying to argue with them about it."

"Is your man really from Hassadar?" Naismith asked.

"Yes," Miles said neutrally.

"I had not heard this," Count Vorkosigan said, glancing up again from his work.

"I haven't quite given my full report to Simon, yet." his brother self admitted. "I wanted to have this little chat first." He studied Miles. "It likely won't go well for your man once Illyan's through with him, you know. If it's treason against both Emperor and Count he'll die, badly. Your full cooperation might spare him some of that."

That didn't deserve a reply, so Miles didn't give it one. His temper rose, though.

"Miles, not at _breakfast_," their mother said with a pained look.

Naismith sighed, reached in a pocket and pulled out a mid-sized communications device. Miles recognized it and growled under his breath. He'd told Roic to destroy anything personally identifiable, and his work comlink with the Vorkosigan seal in silver on wood veneer certainly counted. Not the same model as the armsmen were using these days, fortunately. As soon as their father spotted the seal, he reached over and confiscated the device, holding it in one large hand to examine it. His eyebrows rose as he turned it over.

"This variant of the Vorkosigan crest is not permitted for use outside my household," the Count said to Miles, "although I'm sure you are aware of that."

"Am I not the son of Aral Vorkosigan?" Miles replied, opening a palm semi-rhetorically. Count Vorkosigan gave him an even stare and he fell silent. His father, while willing to be civil, had a limited tolerance for mind games. Like Simon and Gregor, the Prime Minister had immediately realized that Miles was an extremely dangerous man with an unknown agenda and was appropriately careful. Fortunately, none of the three had yet worked up the nerve to cross his mother and lock him in a box somewhere.

Miles watched with narrowed eyes as Naismith retrieved the comlink and theatrically opened the device with a flick of his wrist. There was only one message recorded, and Naismith accessed it.

The tall woman who appeared on the device's screen wore an embroidered deep red dress in matronly High Vor style. Her flowing brown hair was drawn back in a long braid and she was, as ever, stunningly beautiful.

Naismith carefully watched his frozen face. "You know her," he said.

He didn't trust himself not to weep, didn't trust himself to say anything at all. He fell back on iron self-discipline and closed his eyes. _Damn_ his brother. Damn himself for not protecting her. He heard Naismith fidget with the controls.

"Hello, Roic," the woman said in a warm recorded alto. Her accent was Vorish, with a hint of the frontier in her vowels. As Miles opened his eyes helplessly, a black-haired out-of-focus blur ran by behind her. "Please tell Miles I found his seizure stimulator. I'm not sure he's noticed it's missing yet, but I don't want him to fret." A small smile appeared on her face. "It was nothing sinister. I'm afraid Helen was curious and wanted to play with it. I'm not sending it on since he said he'd be back in a week, but please be careful." Her eyes twinkled. "Both of you, I mean. Try to keep him out of trouble?"

With a last fond look, Ekaterin Vorkosigan vanished as if she'd never been. Miles felt ripped open, his self-control frayed to a thin thread. He'd spent almost a year now trying to keep himself occupied, running plots within plots within plots so that he was forced to keep one step ahead and never had time to look back. He wasn't ready to face this, he wasn't ready to face her, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready.

"Every time I thought we had a lead in this case," Naismith said conversationally, "it turned out there was yet another layer of bullshit involved. I am impressed, but I am also sick of the bullshit. Your man was remarkably uncommunicative in general, but he got very quiet when I asked about her. Frightened, I'd say."

Miles abruptly stood, reaching for his cane. "I don't have to take this from you," he said with quiet menace. His brother self had the instincts of an interrogator, and was going for the throat, aiming to shatter his composure and coerce some kind of confession. He wasn't minded to play along.

Naismith also stood, leaning casually on the back of his chair. He held Roic's comlink in his free hand. "Who _is_ she?"

"Miles..." the Countess said. As she was unspecific, they both ignored her. Mark hunched over his plate, caught unwillingly in the crossfire again.

Miles watched in cold silence as his brother self wandered around the table. Naismith gave him a sideways smile as he neared. "Don't think you can protect her."

There was no thought involved, just blinding rage. Snake-fast, his hand dropped to the dagger sheath by his waist. Before anyone could react his grandfather's blade was in his hand and slicing upwards, slashing an arcing wound across Naismith's face.

Miles sheathed the dagger before the shocked silence ended, still quivering with fury. His grip on his cane was white-knuckled. "_Hold_, Pym." the Count growled. The armsman trained a stunner on Miles but, as ordered, did not raise the alarm.

In Vor custom there was no other answer for an offense of that magnitude than a duel - legal or not. Naismith's lips parted in complete outrage as he touched his face. Count Vorkosigan had been raised on a world in which all such disputes were settled with blades, and his face was gray with anger and alarm. Cordelia Vorkosigan's expression was set in Betan disapproval.

"What the _hell_?" Mark, looking back, had spotted Naismith's oozing wound. Despite all his training Mark lacked the spine-deep Vor reflexes of his kin. He seemed more confused by the situation than anything else.

Barrayaran conditioning ran strong. Despite his liberal upbringing, Naismith barely swallowed back a formal challenge, and looked like he was choking on it. "You..." he sputtered, before whirling on his parents. "You gave him _my_ dagger?!"

It had been part of the full costume last night, and nobody had been bright enough to take it away after. In simmering anger, Miles unfastened the dagger belt and tossed it disdainfully onto the table, where it landed in some scrambled eggs. "You contemptible little _shit_," he snarled, stepping closer. Mark seized his arm in a vice-like grip before he could get too far up in Naismith's face.

"_Enough._" Count Vorkosigan commanded.

Naismith's chin jerked up. "Sir, you can't expect me to just _take_ that..."

"You," the Count interjected coldly, "will not run interrogations at the breakfast table."

Miles sneered. His father's attention fixed on him.

"You," Aral Vorkosigan said in an even more arctic tone, "will apologize."

"I don't want an apology," Naismith complained. "I want him to answer the damn question."

Miles stared balefully at his brother self. "She was my wife," he said quietly, "and the mother of my children, and I advise you drop the subject _now_." He tried to yank his arm free from Mark, unsuccessfully.

"Am I interrupting something?" Simon Illyan asked from the doorway.

Miles hadn't heard him approach. He took a deep breath. "No," he said. "I think we're done here." The rest of the room appeared to be still blankly processing what he had said.

Illyan alone seemed unsurprised, After waving an abbreviated and unanswered salute at the uniformed Prime Minister, he surveyed the room, taking in every detail. He glanced from the cut on Naismith's face to the sheathed dagger on the table, and raised an incredulous eyebrow at Miles.

Naismith had surely gone over every frame of that recording in paranoid frustration. His eyes widened. "That boy...you have a son?!"

"Well," Miles said savagely, "not anymore."

*

Illyan didn't speak another word to him the entire drive to ImpSec, but his silence spoke louder than a torrent of accusations. As they approached, Miles stared up at the blocky windowless building sourly. The security agency's headquarters was a monumental achievement of fascist architecture, functional but utterly hideous, demonstratively capable of surviving a nuclear war.

He knew that last fact because he'd had an extremely surreal conversation on that topic with Commodore Galeni after Vorbarr Sultana had been flattened. That recording was now surely in Simon Illyan's hands. Miles's crossnetter had been dropped off at the Imperial Orbital Shipyard something like two days ago, and its wealth of relevant files had probably been extracted last night. He thought it unlikely the Chief of Imperial Security had had more than a token amount of sleep since then.

It said a lot for the psychology ImpSec instilled in its officers that Illyan only really relaxed in the heart of the warren, in a barren conference room with no guards, just the two of them and the truth. It was making Miles deeply claustrophobic, and he was glad he'd gone to ImpMil to have a seizure induced a few days back in anticipation of the wedding.

"You lied to me," Illyan said quietly.

"Don't give me that shit, Simon." Miles said through his teeth. "You had to know a month or two in. You just didn't believe it. Even if I'd told you, it'd have taken you this long to pull your head out of your ass and admit it to yourself. This way I got a few months of badly needed peace and quiet."

"You lied to the _Emperor_. My Lord Auditor."

"Lord Regent," Miles corrected softly. "I don't answer to Gregor anymore."

"I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with you, Vorkosigan," Illyan growled after a charged silence. "I'm going to have to brief your father within three hours, and he's going to ask all sorts of questions I don't know the answer to. Obviously you and," a handwave "...you can't be trusted to even be in the same room with each other without causing a diplomatic incident or going for each others' throats. We still don't have enough information to find that wormhole of yours, _my_ Miles Vorkosigan is going to be typically obnoxious until I let him in on this, and the wedding is in four days. I wish you could go back where you came from and be someone _else_'s problem, because I don't have time for this."

"I don't know if where I came from even exists anymore." Miles said blackly. "Nobody's done enough of the math to know."

"I suppose," Illyan said almost gloomily, "that _you_ have a plan."

"Yes," Miles said immediately, and then corrected himself. "An idea, in any case. I haven't been able to write anything down seeing as my comconsole's been bugged."

Illyan's lip twisted.

"How many people are in on this, anyway?" Miles asked thoughtfully, trying to estimate the answer himself. Simon. Gregor. His family. Certain of the armsmen...Miles had been very careful in maintaining his cover, so to speak.

He knew Illyan had dragged Galeni off Komarr counterintelligence and put him on the case, and surely one or two of the analysts who dealt with Dendarii missions were also involved. The Galactic Affairs head would know, and probably certain of his subordinates. And of course as soon as it started looking like a Domestic Affairs problem Lucas Haroche would have been brought in.

Miles sighed. He wasn't sure there was anything damning of Haroche in the files he had brought back. If not, his conscience would not quite permit him to condemn a man for a crime he might never commit. There was no question Haroche was very very good at his job. Perhaps unfortunately, his reluctance to intervene went double for the thorny issue that was Tien Vorsoisson. Perhaps he could convince the Countess...

God, he was going to have to talk to his _mother_ about all this.

Illyan looked noncommittal. "Less than thirty."

"Higher than I'd like."

"You were a cross-disciplinary enigma."

"So anyway - I'm not sure you got a proper look at the tactics plots I brought yet, but that local wormhole has a highly eccentric orbit and right now it has to be way out there. It might take you many years to pinpoint it outsystem even knowing it's there, because the margin of error we've got for its orbit is so high. Once it comes in-system it will be easier, but even then matching velocities and putting ships through will be an incredible pain. By the time you find it, the other side will likely be well-fortified."

"I am aware of the strategic situation, Vorkosigan."

"On the other hand, the high velocity means that there's only a brief window in which it's a credible threat to Barrayar. Twenty or thirty years from now you would have to be crazy to put a fleet through, and a decade or so past that it might be faster to go around the long way." He shrugged. "The other terminus of the wormhole has a regular circular orbit, and our agents found where the Nuovos were massing, even if they didn't realize where they were going. I looked at all of this on Escobar, and I think it'd take a well-equipped survey team less than a week to find and fully plot."

"It's deep in the Reach," Illyan said. "Too deep for a strike mission."

"Yeah, I know." Miles took a deep breath "That's why we need a war."

"Not with the _Nuovos_." Simon said sharply. "They outnumber us more than the Cetas, and they own a route into our systems near Sergyar. Are you sure you're not letting your personal feelings get the better of you here?"

"Their ships are crap," Miles said bluntly. "And it's not like they fortify their wormhole jumps either." Indeed, the Nuovos suffered from the opposite problem as the hemmed-in Cetagandans - an excess of territory. Their home systems were rich in jumppoints, and their prospector-scouts were famed for their suicidal recklessness. Many a peaceful system had woken up to find the Nuovos on their doorstep, demanding submission and tribute. They weren't much for governing their conquests, but the vast, nomadic Outland Fleet doubled as strategic deterrent and tax collector among the numerous systems weak and far enough from help to be cowed into submission.

They normally would not have hit a system as obsessively fortified as Barrayar, but Miles could see how the once-in-ten-thousand-years tactical opportunity had lured them in. There were plenty of men at Imperial Service Headquarters across town who would have immediately urged the same had the situation been reversed. The Nuovos had been arrogant enough to expect a quick surrender, and perhaps the sane thing to do _would_ have been to surrender.

"Look," he said. "give me a working security clearance and let me get back to you after the wedding. I want to add that we do not have much time. I remember our old intelligence, and if we're going to beat the Nuovos there we need to launch in the next six months."

Illyan rubbed his forehead, as if to ward off an incipient headache and pressed a button on his console. "Pitch it to your father," he finally said. "War is not _my_ business. As for the security clearance, _that_ will have to await the Emperor's pleasure."

"We are not pleased, Miles." Gregor Vorbarra said quietly, stepping over the threshold.

"I know." Miles said. "But I still need your help."


	5. Flood Tide

"Does she meet with your approval, my Lord Auditor?" Commodore Vortrifrani asked politely, five months later.

The Barrayaran warship _Prince Rurik_ was one of the fastest, most advanced, and most powerful vessels in the entire Nexus. Its entire class was designed specifically to intimidate and impress lesser mortals. Miles had spent the last half-hour going through the ceremonial formalities of an Auditor's visit with Vortrifrani, his flag captain, and the executive officer of the ship.

Vortrifrani's tone was just on the edge of ironic, making Miles uncomfortably aware that he was perceived as somewhat young by the Commodore. He murmured an appropriate reply. Lord Tariq Vortrifrani himself was just past fifty, although this was his first fleet command. He was the third son of the elderly Count Vortrifrani, and while a family history of mental illness was not normally held against an Imperial officer of the Vor caste, Lord Tariq's spectacularly mad and borderline treasonous father had not helped his career prospects.

A capable and skilled officer, he'd nevertheless clawed his way to flag rank. Miles had handpicked him for this critical mission. Vortrifrani had been the captain of the _Prince Rurik_ for the three years before his promotion, and had spent this last six months escorting military convoys. He knew the ship's strengths and limitations much better than Miles, and was also far more up to date on the latest Barrayaran military hardware. However, he was also new enough to his role that he could swallow deferring to a much younger man, and politically vulnerable enough that he was unlikely to cross the son of Aral Vorkosigan.

Still, Miles had to treat Vortrifrani cautiously. After all, he was wearing the dress green uniform of the Barrayaran Imperial Service for the first time in many years. A commodore certainly outranked a mere junior captain, ImpSec eyes or no. He had to be exquisitely careful in how he used his Auditor's authority. He not only needed this man's compliance, he needed his full-fledged cooperation.

For now, of course, he was just killing time. There was another player in the delicate dance he was in, and he must necessarily wait upon his moves.

Vortrifrani's comlink hissed to life, and Miles listened alertly.

"Commodore Vortrifrani, your presence is requested in the tactics room, please."

Vortrifrani looked startled. "Tactics? Ah, thank you, Lieutenant." He started down the hallway, before remembering his audience and turning back to Miles.

"I am sorry, my Lord Auditor, but I must go. I hardly expect it's anything serious. My escort force is very sizable, and in addition Admiral Wain is with that Komarran fleet only four light-minutes away. Those Dendarii mercenaries my orders warned about would have to be insane to try anything even without us backing Wain up."

"I'll accompany you," Miles said with a pleasant smile.

Vortrifrani could hardly say anything to that, but his eyes narrowed. "Very well, my Lord Auditor." He strode off down the hallway. Miles winced as he stumbled trying to keep up - his legs were giving him trouble. Roic shot him a concerned look and Miles gritted his teeth. He didn't need to be mothered by his armsman.

Vortrifrani was already well settled in the tactics room as Miles reached the door. He glanced at Miles. "Some of our own transports are deviating from their assigned vectors, but they're claiming we're the ones off course. They've been arguing with us for about seven minutes. It seems they may actually have received the wrong course. I just transmitted an order for them to correct it and they should acknowledge momentarily."

Miles walked over to the system display monitor, and looked at it, tapping his chin with a finger. The tactics room was distracted by his presence, and that of his looming bodyguard. Some were reacting by goggling surreptitiously, others by firmly focusing on their work in case the Auditor bothered to check on them personally.

"I agree they received the wrong course," Miles said, "but I'm not sure it's so innocent. Those ten ships are your blockade runners, correct?"

"Yes," the commodore said coolly. "I had thought of that, my Lord Auditor, but there's nothing hostile in range and I hesitate to assume a mass mutiny."

"But his Imperial Majesty is using fast blockade runners because the cargo is critical and classified. I'm thinking if they boost hard in the next five minutes...well, take a look." He overrode one console's access restrictions with his Auditor's seal, and tapped out a few overlays to put on the main display. "They can reach this wormhole here before our ships can intercept them."

Vortrifrani raised his eyebrows dubiously. "It's a question of motive, my Lord Auditor...and what they could possibly do when they get there. There's nothing on that disused route to Sergyar until you hit our own systems."

"No reply from any of the transports, sir," one of the commodore's subordinates said uneasily.

The commodore looked more thoughtful. "Send again, and have three of our destroyers intercept their new vector. And...hmmm. Give me the three hour range for that mercenary fleet."

"Commodore, the freighters are accelerating," someone reported.

"Plot their course," Vortrifrani said.

Miles remained silent as the freighters appeared on the central display, tracking straight towards the previously mentioned wormhole. As new information trickled in, Vortrifrani began to look very grim.

"I can't abandon the rest of my convoy to pursue without orders," he said to Miles.

Miles nodded. "If you feel pursuit is in order, Admiral Weir should be able to escort the rest of your ships back to Komarr from here."

"I am not sure that it is," Vortrifrani said. "The blockade runners are fast, but I can catch them with the destroyers if they don't jump immediately. If they do jump immediately, that means that either every one of their jump pilots have been suborned - or they have secret orders themselves." He gave Miles a look. "Having an Imperial Auditor on my flagship for mysterious reasons, I am hesitant to discount the second possibility."

Vortrifrani had good instincts, Miles thought, but now wasn't the right time to answer that implied question. "Do you have contingency orders?" he asked mildly.

The commodore's eyes narrowed again. "I do. They were sealed. I thought it strange at the time."

"Sir, the mercenaries are moving. They will intercept the convoy at the wormhole," a lieutenant said apologetically. "I know that wasn't in our cone for them, but it seems several of their larger ships are faster than our tactical computer initially believed."

Vortrifrani stiffened. "I suppose," he said quietly, "our freighters do not have secret orders after all." His voice was clipped and his body language was tense. Having ten Imperially-owned ships stolen from under his watch would be a catastrophe his career would not recover from. "We were warned they would strike the trade fleet!" he snapped at Miles.

"It appears somebody may have leaked intelligence about a non-existent strike on Komarran shipping to lure this fleet here and your escorts out of position," Miles said. "That somebody will be found and dealt with. But that is not our immediate concern."

"No," the commodore said grimly. "So, my Lord Auditor. Do I have your permission to hunt down these pirates?"

*

The _Prince Rurik_ trailed close to forty light warships as it approached the second jumppoint on the Sergyar route. A Barrayaran station guarded this wormhole, and reported that a twenty-four ship convoy that appeared to have the proper clearances had transited eight hours earlier.

They were met in the next system by a sizable detachment from Sergyar. While there were only sixteen ships, six were of the same class as the _Prince Rurik_ and two were even newer. It was a powerful strike force, and Vortrifrani's eyebrows rose as he looked at the tactics display. Having opened his contingency orders the commodore was no longer seething, but he was not pleased either. "Who's in command there? Not Vorpatril, surely..."

"Commodore Lambert, sir." a man said.

"Lambert!" Vortrifrani exclaimed, startled, but closed his mouth before saying anything more.

Commodore Lambert was a man of nearly seventy and almost a contemporary of Admiral Aral Vorkosigan. While he was on the flag staff of Sergyar's defense fleet, his career had been in Operations and related fields rather than ship duty. He was commonly acknowledged as a brilliant staff officer, but he had no experience or reputation as a commanding officer.

There were reasons for that, of course. Any modern Barrayaran senior officer in the space forces was expected to speak the four languages fluently. While there was some wiggle room, especially with Greek, someone whose English was as poor as Lambert's would never normally be considered for a fleet command. A francophone, Lambert had no Greek and only adequate proficiency in Russian. As he'd aged, the Barrayaran space forces had become increasingly monolingual in the wrong language.

"Are we to join forces with him, my Lord Auditor?" Vortrifrani asked uneasily. While the two were of the same rank, Lambert had significant seniority. "The pirates escaped into the Reach and the Nuovo bastards let them through!"

"That's a freighter hull carrying two fast couriers, not a military station," Miles observed. "I doubt it could have stopped them." Indeed, one of the fast couriers was just now jumping into the Reach, and it seemed the other one had jumped when Lambert's fleet had arrived twenty minutes ago. "They're worried about us, with good reason."

"We could get far into the Reach before Outland Fleet notices." Vortrifrani said thoughtfully.

"The problem is getting back out," Miles agreed ruefully. "However, I have _my_ orders. Get me Lambert."

*

They didn't even blow up the freighter-station, though Miles thought Vortrifrani wanted to. There wasn't really any point, and Miles wasn't interested in starting the shooting war quite yet.

Their first step into the Reach took a while. Some of the larger ships had never been out of the Imperium, and had little practice in tightly spaced jumping. The Dendarii could jump within 30 seconds of each other if they had to, but these ships might take two minutes at best. With fifty-seven ships, hours could be lost. Just one more thing to keep in mind. He told Lambert in French to chew his people out, and hoped practice would improve things.

"We'll smash any smaller patrol," he mentioned to Vortrifrani as the _Prince Rurik_ finally jumped, "but this is just enough to lose badly against their main fleet body. We can't afford to be slow, and we can't afford to get cocky."

The next wormhole jump was twenty hours out, so the tight formation of the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet was visible on their tactics board. Miles imagined the reaction of the Dendarii captains to their beefed up pursuit, and grinned slightly. Just behind the Dendarii, the two somewhat staggered Nuovo fast couriers were gaining.

"Pity we couldn't get the couriers," Vortrifrani said from above his shoulder.

"They don't have a proper jump-courier network, so it's not as bad as it might be." Miles said. "Lots of empty systems between here and home for them. In any case, it's not something we could prevent - hah!" He grinned. "Look at the acceleration there! I think they just spotted us. Let them burn fuel. They've got a long way to go."

Less than half a minute later, the Dendarii also changed their formation and increased acceleration as they saw the first ship emerging from the wormhole. They had done this many minutes ago, of course, but the light-speed delay meant that Miles was just seeing it now.

"Huh." Vortrifrani said. "They're both in a hurry, so they're on the same direct course. Wonder which will blink first? The couriers are gaining."

"They'll probably just go through the mercenary formation to save time," Miles said. "They know what we're after - we certainly complained loudly enough. Though - hmm. That's cutting it pretty close."

There was a blue spark on the display as the Dendarii ship _Radiance_ calmly swatted the first Nuovo courier out of existence with a gravitic lance.

Vortrifrani's jaw fell open. "Did they just...?"

Miles grinned. The second courier peeled off on a tangent, but was intercepted by three decelerating Dendarii cruisers. Over the next ten minutes, plasma fire overwhelmed the fast but flimsy craft, and it finally blinked off the tactics board.

"Surprise is achieved," Miles said with satisfaction. "Commodore, please have someone send a tight-beam with the mercenary flagship asking to arrange a meeting, perhaps two hours out from the far wormhole. You may mention my title, but not my name."

"As you will, my Lord Auditor." the commodore said dryly. "Are we going to ask for our ships back nicely, then?"

"Oh," Miles said cheerfully, "it was never about the ships. But you knew that."

*

One sleep cycle later Miles settled in a chair aboard one of the allegedly stolen Barrayaran vessels. Commodore Vortrifrani had accompanied him, and Commodore Lambert had podded over to join the meeting as well. His armsman Roic shadowed him as always, and Miles had drafted Lieutenant Commander Kostolitz, the second officer of the _Prince Rurik_, to be an additional Barrayaran witness.

The Barrayaran freighter captain had alternated between apologizing to Vortrifrani for being compelled to obey his secret orders and giving Miles weird looks until Miles had not-so-gently ordered him out of the room. The Dendarii would arrive momentarily - proper etiquette had them as guests on this Barrayaran vessel, not hosts.

"Oh God," Admiral Naismith said as soon as he walked in, "it's you." Miles's lip twitched. They hadn't exactly _reconciled_ since Gregor's wedding.

"You could have gotten Lord Auditor Vorparadijs," Miles observed, "so count your blessings." He glanced at his companions to see how they were taking this. Vortrifrani had probably heard enough rumors out of the capital that he wasn't too shocked and Roic was stoic, but Lambert appeared completely blindsided. Kostolitz bit his lip.

Miles cocked an eyebrow as the Dendarii sat and the silence grew. There was a brief beat before Naismith grinned brightly. "Oh, I apologize, my Lord Auditor. That was probably rude. I'm Admiral Miles Naismith, commanding, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet. May I introduce my executive officer and fleet engineer, Commodore Jesek."

He'd brought Quinn too. Miles nodded courteously at each of them, and then introduced himself, the commodores, his armsman, and Kostolitz. Naismith gave Kostolitz a curious look after the brief round of introductions, but didn't comment.

"Right," Naismith said. "My contract was very clear on who, what, where, and when, but left out certain important parts of the 'why', and 'how' that I'd like to get cleared up before we go any further. What's all this about then?"

Miles signaled Roic, who placed his Auditor's case on the table in front of him. "My Imperial Master, mindful of your service to him at Vervain and elsewhere, has an offer for you," he said formally. Opening the locked case, he slid it across the table.

As Naismith glanced over the data-disks and other contents, his eyes widened. Reaching with exquisite care, he removed a collar tab out of the case and held it in his palm. Miles saw a flash of gold as the light winked off it.

"That case contains, among other things, a personal message for you from Emperor Gregor Vorbarra," Miles continued. "I am instructed that it is not to be viewed in public."

"Well," Naismith said in a slightly choked voice, "he has my attention."

Miles stood. "If you will excuse us briefly?" he asked his companions, with a slight smile, and nodded towards the door. The officers and Baz took the hint immediately, but Elli lingered until Naismith tiredly waved her out.

"You don't need an Auditor's chain to do courier duty," the Admiral said coldly as soon as the room was empty and Miles had activated the anti-eavesdropping equipment that he had also brought in his case.

"Or blue tabs. Quite." He hadn't exactly expected the commission, but it had become necessary once he received his Auditor's seal back. There was no way any commodore would let himself be railroaded by a mere lieutenant, Auditor or no.

"Somehow I always imagined I'd be present when I was finally promoted," Naismith bit out, his voice bleeding back down to Barrayaran gutturals.

"Who said _you'd_ been promoted? I'll have you know I was commissioned seven weeks ago at this rank." The look of pure outrage on his brother self's face was really something to behold, Miles mused. "All shall be explained, never fear," he continued. Unlocking the secure reader in his case with his Auditor's seal he slid the first message chip into it.

Gregor appeared without fanfare. "Miles. You've been briefed on this Nuovon wormhole situation, so I won't go into that. I've always known I wanted you to be involved with this strike force, not least because of the months you spent passing through there recently. Recent... discussions...have led to me considering you for a greater role than initially planned."

Naismith settled in his seat, watching carefully.

"The long and the short of it," Gregor continued, "is that I need a fleet admiral. Congratulations, you're it - if you so wish. I've assigned you Vortrifrani and Lambert for staff on your father's advice. I expect you shouldn't have too much trouble terrorizing them into line."

The Emperor frowned and then wiped the expression off his face. "There's a complication, of course. This appointment is for Admiral Naismith, not Miles Vorkosigan. I want to make this clear in advance that should you choose this path it is a one way trip. Your elder brother will seamlessly assume your identity, and immediately take medical retirement after this current mission is complete. He'll have the duties and responsibilities of Lord Vorkosigan, and you will not. He will also be your father's heir."

Naismith's breath drew in.

"Your brother indicates that he is unlikely to remarry, so it is possible that you or any children you may have will eventually regain the Countship," the Emperor continued. "Your brother has brought all the paperwork for a rear admiral's commission with him. Should you decide to accept it, I have delegated to him the authority to accept your oath to me as a flag officer. This will be a permanent appointment to the general staff, by the way, not a temporary honor. Among the costs will be that you will no longer be permitted to run your mercenary fleet. I've arranged for you to have a teaching assignment at the Imperial Service Academy when this particular mission is complete. After that we will consider further options."

Naismith's eyes were narrowed now. He gave Miles a sideways look, not exactly friendly.

"There is one other alternative, of course. One way or another, I need an admiral, and helpfully you both have the same name. Should you choose to retain your position as Lord Vorkosigan, your brother will assume your identity as Admiral Naismith - you'll have to work out some story, which I leave to your joint ingenuity- and command the fleet. He will retain his Auditor's authority, while you will join his staff as Captain Vorkosigan."

"Like hell," Naismith muttered, pausing Gregor. "Happy birthday, Miles, we're taking your fleet? I would have loved this when I was twenty-three, maybe."

"For the record, my thirtieth birthday was even less fun. Still. You knew it couldn't last forever."

"One last glorious battle for the record books, huh." He glanced at Miles. "You don't seem tempted by an admiralty yourself."

"I could do it if I had to," Miles sighed. "I'm getting too old for this."

"I thought you had that seizure thing."

"Oh, I finally got the chip replaced. I would have done it earlier, but Illyan's such a paranoid control freak I was afraid he'd have them make a remote control for my head - stop grinning, it's not funny."

"There's really only one option, though."

"Yes."

"And you set it up that way."

"Yes."

Naismith gave him a burning stare. "All right." his brother self growled unhappily at last. "Is there anything else in here I need to know about before we go talk to our people?"

*

The Barrayaran officers viewed Gregor's message to them with something resembling frozen horror. They were all loyal enough not to bitch, though, or at least loyal enough not to bitch in front of the two of them. Miles bit his lip and tried not to look too amused.

On the Dendarii side, Baz was startled but approving, though Elli commented waspishly that a rear admiral's commission was a demotion. She would be surely have more words for Naismith in private, Miles thought. Though - not his business.

He had a quiet word with Roic, directing him to disassemble and stow the room's table in its proper place. Standing, Miles stepped forward.

"Admiral Naismith," he said gravely, "I am the Voice of Gregor Vorbarra."

His brother self propelled himself off his slightly oversized chair to stand as well. He looked up at Miles, then inclined his head ever so slightly.

Miles took a breath. He rarely did the Emperor's Voice ceremonially, but he was _good_ at it. It wasn't like being Naismith - if he imitated Gregor's overeducated accent, he'd just end up being farcical. It was all in the body language, the calm, intense self-assurance that Miles had watched his foster-brother cultivate over a lifetime.

"I have been charged by the Emperor to accept your oath to him in his name," Miles continued. He studied Naismith. "My father has indicated he would like you to swear as Vorkosigan on this matter."

"Has he now..." Naismith murmured. He seemed to think about that, then nodded.

"On your knees," Miles said quietly.

He held his hands open like a book, and Naismith's slid between them. The same hands, not sculpted to match like Mark's had been. Their eyes met, and their gazes locked together like iron filings in a magnetic field.

Naismith made the oath from memory, and without any of the Betan irony Miles had observed when his mother made or administered oaths. Neither of them blinked until he finished with a solemn "This on my word as Vorkosigan."

"So be it," Miles said. He glanced back at the commodores. "I realize this situation is...irregular," he said. "and as the representative of your Emperor I would like both of you to pledge your personal word to give the Admiral the obedience due a superior officer."

"My Lord Auditor..." Vortrifrani half-objected.

Miles opened a palm. "Now, if you please."

*

Miles's plan to visit the Dendarii flagship met with cold disapproval from the Barrayaran side of affairs. Too bad for them. He needed to stay on top of matters even if Vortrifrani not-so-secretly thought his new allies were all pirates.

The pocket dreadnought _Radiance_ was the current Dendarii flagship. It was the new Illyrican replacement for the retired _Triumph_ and had the best tactics room set-up in the fleet, though Oser's old flagship the _Peregrine_ ran a close second. Stepping into the briefing room, Miles noted that his brother self had shuffled personnel assignments.

Shedding Roic at the door, he introduced himself as Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, and paid keen attention during the introductions. Bel Thorne had unsurprisingly been removed from command, but surprisingly was back in Intelligence. Elena Bothari-Jesek was now Naismith's flag captain, while Captain Auson had inherited the _Peregrine_ from her. Thorne's old second had the _Ariel_, and there was a new captain-owner with the fleet as well.

"This is my elder brother Lord Vorkosigan," Naismith said, addressing his officers. "Do not underestimate him. He's an operative for Barrayaran Imperial Security, and has done some really crazy shit even by _my_ standards. He's just as smart as I am and much more likely to stab you in the face if you piss him off."

Miles barely kept a straight face. So much for the deference due his position.

"Some of you may have been under the impression that I myself am Lord Vorkosigan," the Admiral continued. "This is not quite true, but it's been very useful for both of us to have people think so..."

As Miles's brother continued with the briefing, outlining their plan of attack (or at least their plan of avoiding notice as long as possible), the Dendarii began to ask questions. Elli monopolized the discussion, but the captains also threw questions at the pair of them, some of which Naismith answered and others he deferred.

"Rest assured," Miles added at one stage, "that we know that you aren't heavy hitters. We're not planning on asking you to take on Nuovo Outland Fleet single-handedly. That's what the big guns we brought are for. If necessary, you'll be playing trade fleet escorts to lure Nuovon patrols into strike range, and they're nothing you can't handle. We've assigned each of your vessels a legitimate Barrayaran military IFF code, which you will assume before opening fire. While our initial movements through Nuovo space will be as covert as possible, we'll be dropping trade war beacons once we near our destination, and in the unlikely event of capture after that point, you will be legally entitled to prisoner of war status. I have the personal assurance of my Emperor that the Imperium will ransom you if necessary."

"You'll notice I haven't mentioned how we're getting out," Naismith said. "I do have a plan there, but I want to run two sim runs first to see how we do on this side of things."

The Dendarii nodded. Elaborate tactics-room simulations in advance of complicated missions were nothing new for them. Naismith liked to throw everything that he could think of that could go wrong at them and see how they dealt with it before they had to deal with the real thing.

"Bel, have you finished with your Reach simulation yet?"

"It's pretty quick and dirty now," the hermaphrodite said. "Give me a few more days?"

Miles removed a set of data disks from his Auditor's case. "Ops lent me theirs," he said blandly, and glanced across at Naismith. "You have permission to use it on this mission as you see necessary."

"What, _really_?" Naismith said. "Hot damn. That'll be useful. So yeah, Bel, we've got a two-week system transit coming up in a day or two and I want two completely different but equally likely locations and dispositions for Outland Fleet and various civilians. I'll run the Nuovos for the first pass against Commodore Quinn and, uh, Commodore Vortrifrani, and then we'll switch."

"It might take some work to hook all of our warships in," Miles said, "but I'll see it done."

Naismith tapped his fingers on the table idly. He bit his lip before finally blurting out, "Some of you may have reservations about working this closely with the Barrayarans. I can tell you that they certainly have reservations about working with us. Do your best in the sims, but it is not a competition. If we cannot work together, then we will not make it through. I glossed over this a bit earlier, but the commander of the Barrayaran fleet is currently...me." Naismith glanced sideways. "With my brother as political officer, of course. I am running this entire operation from beginning to end, and I expect you all to do your part. We are being extremely well paid for this, by the way. The cost to Barrayar if we don't win will be far greater, so rest assured that I drove a hard bargain."

His chin rose. "However, this is going to be my last mission with the Dendarii. Once we complete it, I will be retiring from the fleet to Barrayar, which was..." Naismith's eyes narrowed. "part of the deal. Some of you -" and he nodded at Elena and Elli, "have met my mother, Cordelia Naismith. I visited Barrayar this past spring, and had several long talks with her."

He leaned back. "My mother has been working behind the scenes for thirty years now to help make Barrayar a more just, sane, and equitable society. It's an interesting project, and I'm happy to help her with it. It's not something I value more than this fleet, but now that Barrayaran Imperial Security has stopped trying to make everyone believe I'm Lord Vorkosigan the assassination activity against me has ratcheted up again. Over a hundred Dendarii men and women have died over the years to save my life, and I'm not willing to spend more of that blood needlessly. My professional judgment is that if I keep this up too much longer the old vendettas against me will destroy me, the fleet and all I've worked for. It's better to let go."

He looked somber a moment, and then cleared his throat. "Despite all our precautions, my estimate is that we will meet Outland Fleet sometime in the next three months in battle. Keep your ships ready to fight at all times. This will be the largest space combat we've ever engaged in, and one that will make our reputation for all time - again." There were scattered morbid chuckles from the crowd.

"Provided we win, of course." Naismith placed his hands flat on the table and leaned over it in emphasis. "But we're _going_ to win."

*

The first week, Outland Fleet smashed them. There was really no other word for it.

Miles observed intermittently from Vortrifrani's tactics room as the hammer fell. The fleet exercise took place only in the fleet's tied-together network of tactics computers, which handled the fictional lightspeed lag, and simulated damage. The whole system could be shut down in two minutes if anything threatened, and one of the few advantages of this long run between jumps was the ability to see anything coming from light-hours away. It wasn't quite a true simulation, since it was possible to both fast-forward through the boring bits and take meal breaks.

Watching Vortrifrani try to work with Elli Quinn over the vid screen was highly amusing. He kept calling her _Madame_ in a long-suffering voice, and she kept trying to tell him how to run his fleet. Two-thirds of the way across the Reach they found nearly half of Outland Fleet calmly waiting for them on one side of a wormhole - and when they fled, half and more again sitting astride their retreat. There was another sixteen hours of maneuvering before they all were blown to atoms, but really that was that.

Quinn, sensibly, surrendered before being completely wiped out. Vortrifrani did not, though Miles suspected that that was more out of competitive instinct than suicidal tendencies.

"This isn't a Vor game," he'd observed privately to the Commodore. "You don't get extra points for getting all your men gloriously killed."

Vortrifrani had growled. Despite said glorious sacrifice, the general agreement in the fleet was that Commodore Quinn had acquitted herself better, a judgment any full-blooded Vor lord would resent.

For the second round, Elli joined them in the _Prince Rurik_'s tactic room. Vortrifrani's all-male team gave her covert stares when they thought she wasn't looking. First woman they'd seen in the flesh in months, probably. Vortrifrani gave her a congenial nod. From the intense look on his face, he was fully focused on returning the favor to Naismith.

"We don't normally let foreign military personnel into the tactics room," he said with a look at Miles, "but the Admiral so orders." His tone was mildly sardonic.

As Quinn glanced at him, Miles wondered what his brother self had told her. "Don't forget that you're getting a chance to see how she operates too," he said to Vortrifrani with a smile. "I'd watch carefully."

He'd considered wandering over to the _Radiance_ to see what Naismith was planning, but this group looked to be more fun to observe. Camping out in a corner, he hooked a portable display into the tactics computer with a little bit of programming savvy and heavy use of his Auditor's seal. This way he could see what both sides were up to.

It was an interesting challenge his brother self had set himself. He not only had to win, he had to win entertainingly enough to hold the loyalty of his dubious Barrayaran captains through what looked to be a nasty campaign.

As the hours ticked on, he took a break for lunch and checked on Lambert, Baz, and the engineering crews modifying some of the smaller vessels with the equipment that had been carried on the supposedly stolen blockade runners. Everything outside seemed to be going all right. The system remained empty of other travelers, which was as expected. The route they were on was only regularly used when the orbiting wormholes were closer to each other.

When he returned, Elli was growling at an intimidated-looking Barrayaran lieutenant. Vortrifrani looked like he wanted to swear, but seemed to be Vorishly stymied by the presence of a lady. Miles took one look at the tactics plot, laughed, and settled back in the corner. That was one Nuovon patrol that wouldn't report home any time soon.

There were some analyses that his brother self had asked him to do, so he occupied himself with that, occasionally listening in as Vortrifrani talked to Bel Thorne, who was playing every noncombatant both sides ran across and having way too much fun in the process.

The day passed without resolution in their war game. Intelligence on Naismith's movements still hadn't made it all the way to Outland Fleet. Miles looked at his own display, judged the overall placement of forces on the tactics board and called a break for the evening. They'd all be run off their feet soon enough, and they needed to catch up on sleep while they could.

*

"Now we've got him," Vortrifrani said with satisfaction.

Naismith had numerous ships scattered around this cul-de-sac system deploying who-knows-what. Miles wondered what his brother self would have put together if he'd had another few hours, but Naismith's decisions were becoming increasingly enigmatic even to him. Strangely, the Barrayaran vessels weren't deployed in wormhole defense position, so after sacrificing a jumpscout in the mined wormhole entrance Vortrifrani's detachment of Outland Fleet poured through uncontested. Two hours later and they still hadn't finished jumping. Even the Nuovos could only put one ship through a wormhole at a time.

The hours wore on - a day and a half in-game for the Nuovos to force the mixed fleet to a confrontation. As a whole, Naismith's fleet was more maneuverable, and the newer Barrayaran ships were technologically far above their Nuovon foes, but the weight of numbers was heavily against them. Swarming vessels pounded their plasma mirrors and raked them with gravitics. Naismith was also missing two ships - the tactical computer had declared a misjump during one hasty wormhole transit.

"This is our destination system, right?" Quinn asked. "So what the heck is he supposed to be up to?" She and Vortrifrani hadn't reached this stage of the mission.

On a whim, Miles leaned around a junior lieutenant's shoulder and commandeered his console, borrowing one of the Nuovo wormhole strike ships from the tactics computer and entering his own instructions. Vortrifrani gave him a look, but didn't comment.

What Naismith had done and done well was get the Dendarii and the Barrayarans to keep formation with each other. As the next batch of warships out of the wormhole accelerated for a pass at them, the fleet broke away beautifully as one unit, putting off the decisive moment for another few hours.

"Someone over there ask him to surrender," Miles said, turning around to look at the main display. It took a minute or two before Vortrifrani's demand and Naismith's polite refusal could be sent and recieved.

"I think he knows he's toast," Elli said to Vortrifrani, "but he's destroying files before setting the self-destructs and abandoning ship. There's a couple of missing ships, too, that we might need to hunt down..."

"You're metagaming, Commodore Quinn," Miles murmured.

The room was suddenly lit with a bright starburst of hard radiation on the main display, right in the middle of Naismith's fleeing fleet. The smaller ships in range vanished, while the larger vessels emerged scarred and crippled from the boiling energies of a nuclear sun wall. Most had lost acceleration.

"How the heck did you?..." Elli muttered, sounding a little impressed despite herself.

"I don't think that was really necessary, my Lord Auditor," Vortrifrani said after a philosophical silence. "We had him."

"Hah," Miles said. "Maybe." He walked over to the communications console, using normal comms instead of the in-game ones. "Naismith, do you copy?"

"That was just _showing off,_" his brother self said, sounding irritated beyond measure to have been ambushed like that. It was true that few would try something that completely ridiculous in actual combat, and it had only really worked because both sides were being run off the same tactical computer. "Very well. I yield."

"We done here, or?..."

The grin in Naismith's voice was audible. "Give me another five hours or so on fast-forward. Bel?"

"You'll need six," the hermaphrodite gamemaster interjected, "but I'm calling this one."

The main display shifted to Bel's omniscient real-time view, and the Nuovos clumsily handled the capture of the vessels too damaged to abandon ship and self-destruct on tactical computer autopilot. The system buzzed chaotically at an hour a minute. As a few remaining active Dendarii vessels drifted stealthily among the outer planets, many of the Nuovons jumped out of the system to take up duties they had abandoned elsewhere.

A single ship appeared out-system. The display froze. "Victory Dendarii," Thorne intoned with satisfaction.

"Now wait just _one moment!_" Vortrifrani said indignantly. "How was that a win for him?"

"That's the _Ariel_ coming back," Miles said, "and behind her all of our Home Fleet plus a bit extra. Headquarters was unpleasantly surprised to find out that we had a back door. I was sent to close it."

"This wasn't in _my_ briefing," Vortrifrani growled.

"Victory _Barrayar_, Captain Thorne," his brother self transmitted in a weary Betan drawl. "Please remember we're under contract here. All ships, this is Admiral Naismith. I think that was a good exercise, but we could and will do better. We've hit victory condition one, which is Barrayaran reinforcements arriving from the Imperium to secure the Fenchurch wormhole."

"My estimate is that we would have gotten out with 45% ship losses on this run and perhaps 30% loss of life if not for that nasty surprise at the end. I am reliably informed you can blame my brother the Imperial Auditor for that, by the way. To those of you who are Imperial subjects, your Emperor damn well expects you to take those losses if it's necessary to keep the Nuovo Brasilian junta away from Barrayar, Komarr, and Sergyar. However, I don't think we will."

"I don't send my people on suicide missions, and this isn't. To those of you sworn to the Dendarii Free Mercenaries, that was practice. What's coming up is the real thing. We've seen a little of what could work, what doesn't work, and what needs work. There is no such thing as acceptable casualties as far as I'm concerned. I have a number of ideas for how to streamline our trip through the Nexus and delude, mislead, and destroy our foes. What I'm asking you to do once again is trust that I know what I'm doing."

"In a month or two, we should reach the Fenchurch 648 system. You've seen what's in the way, but this is my sworn promise to you all. I'll get you there, and I'll get you home. Naismith out."

*

"Yes?" Miles asked politely as the door slid open. He tried to focus through the dull post-seizure ache behind his eyes, which took a bit of effort. Ah. Kostolitz. He suspected he wasn't looking his best, but this conversation needed to happen. It actually had needed to happen about a week ago, but it seemed like _everything_ was behind schedule. He was still going over performance data from the fleet exercises. "Is this official business?"

"Uh, no, my Lord Auditor." Lieutenant Commander Kostolitz snuck a glance back at Roic and stood uneasily at attention. Roic, well attuned to his liege-lord's moods, stepped outside at a mere glance.

"My name's still Miles, you know, Sergei."

"Wasn't sure you remembered." Kostolitz looked around the spacious quarters. "You've done well for yourself. A captain by thirty. An Auditor by thirty, even."

Miles smiled thinly. "You want my job, Kostolitz? I could put a word in. You're wrong if you think this is a favor, by the way."

"I...look, Vorkosigan, I don't see why you had to bring me into all this."

"Whatever do you mean?" Miles's lip twitched.

"Dragging me out to meet those mercenaries of yours. Ever since it came out that we were in the Academy together people have been asking me questions about you and this Naismith man. I don't know anything and they don't believe me when I say I haven't even seen you in nearly a decade."

"They're not my mercenaries. They're my brother's mercenaries."

"Yeah, and since when do you have a twin brother?"

"I actually have two of them, but that's classified," Miles said blandly. "So, Sergei. What's the mood in the fleet?"

His old classmate frowned at him.

"Everybody and their brother officer has been bothering you, you said," Miles noted. "They've no doubt got their own pet theories about what's going on, who's really in charge, what the deal with Naismith is, and I'm sure there's a dozen conspiracy theories going around as well. You've got a better grasp of what the junior officers of this ship _really_ think than anyone else right now. If they are going to be less than fully cooperative, I need to know."

"A lot of folks aren't too happy about having a mutant Betan in charge." Kostolitz said cautiously. "Especially since he moved aboard. People have figured out you're brothers, but some people are saying he's a bastard too."

"Interesting question under Barrayaran law. He's neither Betan nor a mutant, though."

"He's your brother, though, and you're the son of the prime minister."

Miles frowned. He'd expected this, but - "Naismith is in charge because he is simply the best man for the job. Full stop. No other qualified fleet commander has his experience or grasp of subterfuge. We can't just bull into the Reach like we own the place."

"Yeah, maybe." Kostolitz stared evenly at him. "And what about you? Why are you here? Pretty roundabout way to ship duty."

"Ha. You're not old enough to remember the Ministry of Political Education, Sergei, but most of the captains are. Lambert certainly does, and Vortrifrani as well. I am here, outside the normal chain of command, to underline Gregor's support for this mission, and ensure there is no disloyalty to the Emperor or his chosen commander. Now, you're fairly clever, Kostolitz. Can you guess what the other half of my duties are?"

"Win the war?"

Miles's eyes slitted in amusement. "No. That's my brother's task. I am...not his equal in these matters. It took me some time to realize that, but it's true. He's younger, faster, and perhaps even cleverer. If I look like death warmed over right now, it's because I _am_. Think about it carefully, Sergei. We're deep in enemy space, with no back-up unless we win. All orders have been transmitted through me. All messages from my superiors have been destroyed. And I have gone well beyond the _official_ scope of my duties. There's two sides to every plan."

Kostolitz's eyes widened in sudden realization. "So if everything goes to hell..."

"...there's only one person they need to shoot for it." Miles finished for him. "Just so. You still want my job, Sergei?"

***

The tension in the tactics room ratcheted upward as the Dendarii courier _Briseis_ hurtled out of the wormhole's throat like a bat out of hell.

"Damn," Naismith said quietly. "I was hoping...damn." He blew out a breath. "Well, we're ready for them."

His subordinates gave way as the grey-uniformed Admiral walked up to the main tactics display of the _Prince Rurik_ as if he owned it. The gold and black Barrayaran rank tabs of a rear admiral winked on his collar as he stared at the data the _Briseis_ was relaying from the adjoining system. Last week, Miles had seen Vortrifrani call the Admiral _sir_ without any irony whatsoever, something that still amazed him.

"They were still jumping in when the _Briseis_ left," Naismith said. "They _are_ annoyed. It's not all of them, though I doubt they thought they needed all."

They'd lost two ships so far, both Barrayaran, and two of the blockade-runners had been sacrificed as wormhole mines, straddling the five-space exit point to obliterate any ship trying to materialize in the same place. The Nuovos had blown through the mines at the loss of a ship per jump. They were deadly serious. But then, Naismith had been more than an annoyance.

They'd been unlucky enough to have three Nuovon patrols discover them, but a combination of fraud, bluff, and plasma weaponry had obliterated one and completely confused the other two. Every neutral ship they'd passed had been given a different story about who they were, where they were going, and how many ships they were. On one memorable occasion a disguised Captain Auson had demanded remuneration from a Nuovo contra-almirante in exchange for giving him evidence of enemy activity in his sector - and gotten it. The Dendarii had scouted ahead, destroying the automated Nuovo recorders that tracked transits through empty systems. But now the confrontation was at hand.

The next few hours was a bustle of activity. The Briseis had left a warning beacon, so Naismith grimly sacrificed another freighter as a mine. They had come nearly to the limits of their supply, and it was empty. They needed all the fuel it and the other freighter had. They might be fighting for a week, if they could last that long.

Dendarii ships out-system began running silent as they swept the supposed wormhole orbit for five-space distortions. There was a reason most wormholes in civilized space had stations or beacons marking their location - they were damn hard to find otherwise without really good charts. The surveyors had begun their work three days before, and would be done in two days. Everybody had gotten increasingly nervous as the wormhole continued to evade discovery.

Elli Quinn was now running Dendarii operations from the _Radiance_. The two fleets were being kept separate, in the hopes the enemy tactical computers would assume they were being coordinated separately.

When all preparations were complete, all that was left was the waiting. Vortrifrani argued again for meeting them at the wormhole, and Naismith continued to refuse. It seemed like an eternity before the freighter plugging the wormhole disintegrated in a large explosion. A second Outland Fleet jumpscout winked in, took a minute or two of readings when it failed to be shot at, and then winked out again.

The first warships appeared, five cruisers jumping in half a minute apart. They spread out casually, beginning to build a tight wormhole defense bubble around the five-space weakness. The tactics room started sneaking glances at Naismith, who remained impassive.

Vortrifrani conferred briefly with a lieutenant, and then looked up. "Sir, the _Minister Quintillian_ has just passed us the wormhole's orbit through the distributed communications network. They jumped out twenty minutes ago."

"Good. Relay it to the captains and make sure the tactical computer has a retreat option running for the fleet at all times."

"Are we just going to sit here then, sir?" Vortrifrani finally asked the question the whole tactics room was wondering about. None of them liked Naismith's decision not to hold the wormhole.

"I'm waiting for their command ship to jump in," Naismith said. "Once they establish their defensive perimeter on the wormhole, it should arrive. Azevedo's a careful man."

"Once they establish their defensive perimeter, we won't be able to touch them," Vortrifrani said gloomily.

"We'll see. I suspect their captains are getting a little unnerved at us just waiting here."

"Our captains are too," Vortrifrani observed.

"Here we go," Naismith said, as a high-energy blur appeared on the wormhole close-up display. "That's _Amazonas_ right there. A proper dreadnought - two thousand crew." He stared at the display pensively.

A fast courier-sized something activated its engines and hurtled at the wormhole. At thirty thousand kilometers plasma fire from the Nuovo cruisers easily picked it off. As it exploded, a wave rippled across the tactics board, only visible by its effect on the ships . The _Amazonas_, a battleship that had jumped in behind it, and two cruisers in the wrong part of the defensive perimeter simply vanished, while other parts of the Outland Fleet formation was instantaneously sheared and distorted.

The tactics computer reacted before anyone in the room could, and the _Prince Rurik_ accelerated towards the wormhole in company with its fleet. The twenty-odd scattered Nuovo cruisers were slow to respond - they no longer had a larger ship's tactical computer to coordinate their movements. Some tried to reform the perimeter, while others, shocked, pulled away to what they thought was a safer distance.

"I still don't believe the specs on that weapon of yours," Naismith said to Miles. Even he looked spooked by the wholesale carnage. Two Riva coils made a crossnetter. One made a wormhole destabilizer far more efficient and deadly than its Komarran-designed predecessor.

"They've stopped coming through the wormhole," Vortrifrani reported.

"They'd be ill-advised to try for another few hours," Miles said. "We'll be well fortified by then, but we need to hold out for some days yet."

"Go off-shift, Commodore," Naismith said. "It's a long slog from here on out, and I'm going to need you to relieve me tonight."

*

"I think we've killed their last jumpscout." Naismith said wonderingly. "Between the mines and everything else...you think they'll send couriers to scout, or stop coming?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Miles answered anyway. "Depends on who won the power struggle back there. If it's one of their clever almirantes they might back down and blame everything on the dead. Otherwise - another sun wall of nuclears."

Naismith grimaced. Even with plasma mirrors at maximum, they'd still lost four ships in the last one. Their wormhole defense was ragged but holding. Many of the lighter warships had limped out of the combat zone for repairs. "This is a slaughter."

"They know we're hurting, though."

Naismith tapped in a few commands, ordering the tactics computer to back everyone away from the wormhole a bit. Another command, and some of the distant blockade-runners began slowly accelerating toward them, saving their remaining fuel.

"Mining the wormhole again?"

Naismith nodded. "It seems we need to buy some more time for our allies, and I need every moment I can get right now. We've got to do some fuel transfers to the big ships if we're to fight on much longer."

Both of them glanced at the secondary display and then quickly looked away in the knowledge that a watched wormhole never yielded reinforcements.

Except sometimes, just sometimes, it did.

*

Home Fleet streamed into the system one ship at a time, dropping into position. As the battered strike force dropped back towards the wormhole home, their relief took up a leisurely defensive position around the Nuovon wormhole. The balance of power shifted inexorably. Eight hours later, the Nuovo Brasilian assault on the Fenchurch 648 wormhole ceased.

The _Prince Rurik_ and its fleet refueled off a tender in the Barrayaran system and began the long passage home. Barrayar's sun grew over the course of the slow, limping four-day traverse from a pinprick of light to a warm, glowing orb.

The shipyards received their damaged craft for repairs and overhauls. Messages raced to and from between the _Prince Rurik_, the Emperor, and the General Staff. Soon all that was left for the two of them was the paperwork. Both brothers lounged in the quiet flag office of the massive vessel, finishing the necessary reports up. Naismith was slightly behind on his responsibilities, having spent the day groundside clearing up loose ends with Imperial Security.

"So how does it feel to be an official war hero of the Imperium, Admiral?" Miles asked slyly after finishing a particularly difficult passage. "Have you seen what they're planning? I don't think they've thrown a celebration this ridiculous since Prince Serg died."

Naismith made a face at him and returned to staring pensively at a display in the _Prince Rurik_'s flag office. Below them, their own blue planet slowly turned. "I almost want to hide until it's over, but I expect the Counts will veto most of the frivolity. Are you really going to change your name?"

Miles nodded. "Not just yet, but yes. Less confusing for everyone. I've stolen near everything else from you, I won't steal that."

"It'll be strange to think of you as Piotr," Naismith said, "but I suspect he'd approve. You're more like him than I think you realize."

"Becoming one's own grandfather is a known hazard of time-travel," Miles agreed with a slight wince.

"Eh, cheer up. There's a lot to celebrate. A victory, a new Imperial heir, a new wormhole..." He looked sidelong at Miles. "A new future." He was clearly trying to distract himself from something.

"What's on your mind?" Miles asked, straddling a station chair.

"Elli's leaving," Naismith said reluctantly.

Miles half-smiled in commiseration. "You were never going to catch her, you know. She loves her freedom too much - and you loved the chase."

"It was more than _that_. She still amazes me with how perfectly...Quinn...she is."

"If you're really that lovesick you could beg her other ovary..."

He got a dirty look for that. "You, at least, should understand."

"I do. Oh _God_ I do."

His brother self took a deep breath. "Yeah. Thanks for that." He hesitated. "The event's in an hour. I should get ready."

Right. The Dendarii were leaving in the morning, but there was to be a raucous farewell celebration on the _Peregrine_ tonight. "People tend not to invite Imperial Auditors to those kinds of parties," Miles said glumly.

"You can invite yourself. No one will dare say anything."

Miles considered it, then shook his head wryly. "Just go. Get drunk. Have fun. It's probably your last chance to sleep with Bel Thorne, you know."

Naismith grinned and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him up and steering him to the door. "Aw, come _on_ Miles. There'll be _karaoke_. You'll love it."

The door slid shut behind them, but the world lay at their feet.


	6. A Garden in the Wilderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _another time, another place..._

"You're late, Duv," the heavyset man under the tree said. "What took you?"

"The Empress Regent needed some support," Minister Galeni replied as he made his way through the thigh-high weeds. "The morning ceremonies were extremely difficult for her." His security detail surrounded him at a distance, scanning the desolate neighborhood and monitoring radiation levels.

Duv squinted in the bright sunlight, and spotted the trampled trails leading to and away from their rendezvous. "Are your children around?" he asked. "I don't want my people to shoot them by accident."

"They're exploring the ruins," Lord Vorkosigan said. His faint smile grew just a little sinister. "Don't worry, they know you're here."

"Is that...safe?"

"Probably not." The other man seemed unworried. "It's his house, though. Delia not coming?"

"No. She saw a lot more of this from ground level than you or I did. She didn't want to linger." It had been nine months before he'd been able to emerge from the windowless concrete womb of ImpSec headquarters. Nine months and four days before he tracked down his wife and daughter in the refugee camps, and he hadn't cared that she didn't have any hair, hadn't cared about that stupid argument they'd been having about moving to Komarr. They were alive. That was all that had mattered.

The funeral and death offering for Gregor Vorbarra had been today, ten years removed. They probably could have opened the city earlier, but a combination of Barrayaran paranoia about mutagens and the incredible work needed to make the city even navigable had put it off.

The streets near the hulk of Vorkosigan House had been mostly cleared of wreckage, but rebuilding hadn't yet commenced in this sector of the capital. The ruined garden they were in was strewn with glass and rubble.

"I'm surprised at all the life," Duv said. "You'd think all this would have been sterilized."

"Nah." Mark pointed to the shattered wreck of a building behind the far wall. "It got burnt out, sure, but the House shields would have taken a lot of the closest detonation. Maybe even held, if the office building next door hadn't collapsed on everything." He patted the scarred, man-sized trunk of the coiling-branched tree beside him. "Besides, these things are surprisingly rugged."

High-pitched laughter and a distant argument distracted them both. Though Mark maintained his outward unconcern, Duv thought he detected a hint of relief on his brother-in-law's face as his two adolescent children wriggled through a breach in Vorkosigan House's perimeter wall. It was a little more of a squeeze for Lieutenant Vorsoisson, who looked pensive as he delivered his charges back to their father.

Despite the nonsense they'd all given Miles Vorkosigan about how his children would bring down the Empire someday, Duv had always thought his niece and nephew much more intimidating. Particularly his niece. He understood Countess Vorkosigan's old arguments about the importance of integrating Barrayar's telepathic children into normal society, but it had still been a _terrible_ idea to mention the experiment in front of Mark. Lillian had been a cute kid, but Duv was very uneasy about her swiftly developing talents.

Her younger brother the Count was more nearly a clone than a son, the product of his father's curiosity about how his genome would turn out uncrippled and untortured. The product of an additional two years of Escobaran genome optimization, Valerik Vorkosigan was tall for twelve and entirely too enthusiastic about _everything_. He had more than a little of Kareen in him as well, of course, most notably in his ash-blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

There was a stone set near the base of the skellytum, with names and dates. Another memorial had been placed near the house proper with the names of Armsmen and staff, but Nikolai had said his mother would have wanted to be remembered in the garden. Duv still did not know exactly why he had come, except out of respect for the man whose bones did not rest here. After adding a snippet of hair to the death-offering in the brazier, he sat on a cracked stone bench by the tree and reflected silently.

"He'd never have believed it, you know," Mark mentioned introspectively as the brazier burned down.

"What?" Duv asked.

"That the world would go on without him. Never in a million years. Ego the size of a planet, my brother."

A companionable silence. Count Val fidgeted - hungry, no doubt. His sister elbowed him.

"He told me to run the goddamn system until he got back, you know," Duv mused. "It was almost the last thing he said to me. I spent months trapped downside, holding things together by the skin of my teeth, just to give him the time he needed. On blind faith. When I found out, it was...I didn't know how to react. Out of all the ways I imagined him getting himself killed, _pilot error_ never topped the list."

"If that's what they said, it's not true," Vorsoisson said.

"Hm?"

"Pilot error. It wasn't. I mean, that's why I begged the Empress for a waiver, so I could get the crossnetter implant and find out. Mama would have wanted me to find out, and she wanted to know too. It wasn't pilot error. Whatever it was, it was much weirder than that."

"Eh," Mark said, "but from this side that doesn't matter very much."

"No," the young lieutenant said with a frown. "No, I guess not."

Mark let out a deep sigh. "Your mama was a great woman, Nikki,"

"Well...yeah. I guess."

"Even if she didn't realize it most of the time. She was. My brother saw it. By the end, we all did."

"He loved her so much," Galeni said. "Though he never did anything halfway."

"_That's_ true. Do you remember Uncle Miles, Lil?"

His daughter shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "Lots of people do, though. Grandfather used to..."

Mark nodded slowly. "And do you know why we burn death offerings, Val?"

"Because our fathers did," Val answered quickly.

"Well, that too. But mostly...memory. It's good to take time to remember those who came before. How do they do it on Komarr, Duv? Or have you gone native after all these years?"

Duv gave his brother-in-law a wintry smile. "I'm afraid so," he said.

"Heh." Mark hesitated delicately. "Have you ever...I'm sorry, this is personal. Have you ever burned a death offering for Ser Galen?"

"No," Duv said as flatly as he could. "You?"

"No."

Duv unbent slightly. "I burned one for my aunt, once. With your brother. He insisted. And one for your father, of course."

Mark's eyebrows climbed. "The old Count? Really? I never thought you the sentimental sort, Duv."

"I never realized how much of a radical the old man was, deep down. He kept it well hidden. Though it was amazing how enthusiastic everybody became about the idea of a constitution once it became clear the alternative was either two Komarrans running the place for the next fifteen years or civil war..."

His brother-in-law smiled.

"But it's strange that you ask..." Duv said, eyes narrowing. "Do you know what the last thing your brother said to me was?"

Mark looked suddenly wary.

"He said..." Duv gathered thought and memory. "He said: 'I'm beginning to understand your father's point of view much better, Duv.' Just those words."

"Oh," Mark said quietly. He sat on the ground with a heavy thump and seemed to curl up a bit inwardly. "God. Really?"

"I've never seen him like that before. Ever. It was terrifying. But I wasn't afraid for us...just for anyone in his way. I thought Delia and Laisa were dead, you understand. I knew Gregor was. It was a terrible night...the senior Galactic Affairs man on duty shot himself in his office."

"That's another reason we burn death offerings, Val," Mark said. "To put to rest the spirits of the unquiet dead." He leaned over and watched the offering burn down. It was mostly ashes now.

"Does it work?" Galeni asked, curious.

"Can't hurt. You'll burn five for me, Lil, eh? When the time comes."

"Daa-ad," she complained.

Something brown and flattened darted across the memorial stone. Val pounced, nearly knocking over the brazier. "Hey, dad!" the young Count said, eyes gleaming brightly. "Look what I found!"

"Huh?" Mark eyed the pustulent, bloated, Vorkosigan-liveried butter bug his son proudly presented him with something between delight and horror. "...oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

Even Duv cracked a smile then. Life finds a way.


End file.
